Fire in the East Read Free

bashtards. They have been lying since they could crawl. But the northern ones, like this bashtard, are thick, slow as you like. Your northerners are big, ferocious and stupid, while your easteners are small, sly and shit sheared of anything.’ The intermittent slurring showed that his first language was not Latin but Punic, from North Africa; the tongue spoken almost half a millennium ago by Hannibal, the great enemy of Rome.
    All the men on deck and the crew below fell silent as Marcus Clodius Ballista, Vir Egregius, Knight of Rome, and Dux Ripae, Commander of the Riverbanks, raised his arms to the heavens to begin the usual ritual at the start of a voyage. The water was calm here at the threshold of the sea, where the sheltered waters of Brundisium harbour met the Adriatic. With its outstretched oars at rest, the galley lay like a huge insect on the surface of the waters. In good Latin, which nevertheless had a twang of the forests and marshes of the far north, Ballista began to intone the traditional words:
    ‘Jupiter, king of the gods, hold your hands over this ship and all who sail in her. Neptune, god of the sea, hold your hands over this ship and all who sail in her. Tyche, spirit of the ship, hold your hands over us.’ He took a large, finely worked golden bowl from an attendant and, slowly, with due ceremony, poured three libations of wine into the sea, emptying it.
    Someone sneezed. Ballista held his outstretched pose. The sneeze had been unmistakable, undeniable. No one moved or spoke. Everyone knew that the worst omen for a sea journey, the clearest possible indication of the displeasure of the gods, was if someone sneezed during the rituals which marked the departure. Still Ballista held his pose. The ceremony should be over. An air of expectation and tension spread through the ship. Then, with a powerful flick of the wrist, Ballista sent the bowl flying through the air. There was a collective sigh as it splashed into the water. It glittered for a moment below the surface, and then was gone for ever.
    ‘Typical fucking barbarian,’ said the frumentarius from the Subura. ‘Always the big, stupid gesture. It cannot take away the omen, nothing can.’
    ‘That bowl would have bought a nice bit of land back home,’ said the North African.
    ‘He probably stole the thing in the first place,’ replied the Spaniard, reverting to their previous topic. ‘Sure, northern barbarians might be stupid, but treason comes as naturally to them as to any easterner.’
    Treason was the reason the frumentarii existed. The old saying of the emperor Domitian, that no one believed a plot against the emperor was real until he was assassinated, most certainly did not apply to them. Their thoughts were suffused with treason, plot and counter-plot; their ruthless combination of secrecy, efficiency and obsession guaranteed that they were hated.
    The captain of the warship, having asked Ballista’s permission, called for silence prior to getting underway, and the three frumentarii were left to their own thoughts. They each had much to think about. Which one of them had been set the task of reporting on the others? Or was there a fourth frumentarius among the men of the Dux Ripae, so deep undercover they had not spotted him?
     
    Demetrius sat at the feet of Ballista, whom in his native Greek he called kyrios, ‘master’. Yet again he thanked his own daemon for guiding his recent path. It would be hard to imagine a better kyrios. ‘A slave should not wait for his master’s hand,’ ran the old saying. Ballista had not raised his hand in the four years since the kyrios’s wife had purchased Demetrius as his new secretary, one among many wedding presents. Demetrius’s previous owners had had no such compunction about using their fists, or doing far worse.
    The kyrios had looked magnificent just now as he made his vows and threw the heavy golden bowl into the sea. It had been a gesture worthy of the Greek boy’s hero, Alexander