'Mmm,' said Maximus.
'Well, now I have found another set up by the holy Apollonius. This one guards against scorpions.' Demetrius was pleased.
'Sure, might not someone with an uncharitable mind see all this as the most terrible superstition?' The Hibernian's question was accompanied by a quizzical look.
The Greek youth laughed. 'Oh yes, it is always important to distinguish true religion from base superstition.'
You should know, boy, thought Maximus.
'And indeed the plebs here, like the unwashed hoi polloi everywhere, are prey to the most ignorant of superstitions. For example, in the theatre, there is a wonderful statue of the Muse Calliope as the Tyche of Antioch. You will never believe what the plebs think the statue represents…'
Demetrius chattered on as they trotted to catch up with Ballista and his son. Maximus let his thoughts wander. It was good that the Greek youth was happy. He had suffered badly in their flight from the fall of Arete: the hunger, the fatigue; above all, the fear. The Greek secretary was not naturally suited to an adventurous life. Actually, he seemed fairly unsuited to any life except that of scholarly leisure. Certainly he was unsuited to life as a slave. He frequently seemed unhappy, which struck Maximus as odd. If you were born into slavery, as Demetrius had said he was, surely you would get used to it, as certainly you had nothing to compare it with.
'So you see, the basest superstitions infect the plebs like a disease.' Demetrius was in full flow. 'I will give you another example…'
Truth be told, if anyone should find the pains of slavery especially sharp, it should be Maximus himself. He was already a warrior when he was captured in a tribal raid in his native Hibernia. He had been sold off to the Romans to fight in the Arena, first as a boxer then a gladiator. It had not been a good time. But then, Ballista had bought him as a bodyguard and things had become better. In some ways, things were better now than they would have been if he had not been captured. Either way, he would have had to fight – which was good: it was his skill and it was his pleasure. And here in the imperium the rewards were better: a greater variety to the alcohol and women.
Maximus looked down as they passed a traveller inspecting the hoof of his lame donkey. Demetrius was still talking.
Anyway, Maximus thought, there is the debt. Years ago, in Africa, Ballista had saved Maximus' life. There was no question of Maximus seeking his freedom until he had paid back the debt. Ballista kept offering to free Maximus, but the Hibernian could not accept. Maximus knew that he must return the favour, must clearly and unambiguously save Ballista's life, before he could think about freedom.
They caught up with Ballista and Isangrim. There was a grey-green humpback peak straight ahead. They crested a slight rise and there, opening off to their right, was a lush, wooded valley. This looked like good hunting country. They were coming into Daphne.
Demetrius clapped his hands with pleasure and said they were all blessed. The sides of the road were lined with inns and stalls, mainly selling food or souvenirs. It was not quite meridiatio, time for the siesta. The weather was warm despite the breeze. The tables outside the inns were full of men finishing their lunch or playing dice.
They walked their horses past the public baths and the Olympic stadium before they came to the tall, tall grove of cypress trees that was the sacred heart of Daphne. Dismounting, they paid a couple of street urchins to look after their horses. Rather more coins secured the services of a local guide.
They were led down shady paths. The air was full of birdsong and the sounds of the cypresses moving in the breeze. There were pleasant smells, smells sweeter than spices.
The guide stopped first at one particularly tall cypress tree, which stood apart from the others. He told them the story of the Assyrian youth Cyparissus who accidentally shot and killed his pet stag. So great was his grief that the gods took pity and changed him into this very cypress tree.
Even Demetrius looked unimpressed by this. Sensing that his audience was not with him, the guide moved swiftly on.
Next he brought them to a gnarled laurel tree. He told them of the god Apollo's lust for the mountain nymph Daphne, his relentless pursuit, her headlong flight, the moment of capture, her despairing plea to Mother Earth, and her miraculous transformation into the laurel tree in front of them.
While this was generally considered a far better story – indeed, Maximus found himself quite stirred up at the thought of the chase – it again seemed to fail to win total credence. Demetrius pointed out in a stage whisper that the story was usually set in mainland Greece, either in Thessaly or Arcadia.
At last the guide led them to the springs of Apollo. These won a far more positive response. Waterfalls cascaded down the rockface. The babbling waters were guided into semicircular basins and pools. Streams ran on either side of the Temple of Apollo.
All the party except Maximus went into the temple and admired the great statue of the god – hair and laurel crown gilded, eyes made of huge violet stones – that, three years earlier, after the Persians had sacked and burned Antioch, had made Shapur throw away his torch and leave Daphne untouched.
Maximus was standing outside. The Hibernian was not a man given to bothering the gods, but even he recognized that there was something special about this place. Maybe the boundaries between man and the supernatural were especially thin here. Whatever it was, something was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He looked around. There was nothing to be seen or heard except the water and the trees, the cooing of doves high up on the pediment of the temple.
When Ballista had seen all that he wanted to see, he gave the priests some money to make sacrifice and left the grove. The urchins looking after the horses led the party to an inn, which they said would serve them a good lunch even at this late hour. Ballista thought they were probably relatives of the innkeeper or that he paid them a small fee for every customer they produced. But the inn was fine. Vines were trained over trellises to make a pleasant out-of-doors dining room with a view over the distant plain of the Orontes. Having checked with the others, Ballista ordered their meal, a salad of artichoke hearts and black pudding followed by suckling pig.
Ballista thought that his reunion with his son was going as well as one could hope. At first Isangrim had been silent and resentful. I waited for you. I sat on the stairs all the time. I did not think you were coming back. But the boy had an affectionate nature, and soon it was as if there was nothing to forgive.
'I love sausages, Pappa.' Isangrim ate hungrily, with both hands. None of the men told him off for eating with the left hand, which was impolite. Maximus asked him what he wanted to do when he grew up.
'When I get as big as you I will be a forester.' Isangrim looked round at the famous cpyresses. 'I chop all these trees down.' He turned to his father, his earnestness unshakeable. 'I have to get up very early in the morning to do all the work.' The three adults laughed.
The laughter carried clear across the terrace to where, eating chickpea broth, the cheapest choice, the assassin sat watching them. The assassin had been watching for them all day. The client had led him to the house in the Epiphania district at first light. The assassin had given the client a threadbare old cloak and a tattered, broad-brimmed travelling hat. He had told the client to sit with him under the wide eaves on the far side of the street, leaning against the wall close by the closed wine shop, just like the vagrants did. There they had waited, the assassin occasionally scratching the jagged scar on the back of his right hand.
It had been a long wait; time enough for the assassin to begin to really dislike his client. They had not spoken, but that was not necessary. There was something about these smooth, rich young men, an assurance and a swagger that simply putting on some old clothes could not disguise. They looked life in the eye in a way that a pleb down on his luck would have had beaten out of him. The assassin felt nothing about the man he was going to kill. If he was a bad man, so much the better. If, on the other hand, he was a good man, let the judges of the underworld send him to the islands of the blessed. But the client – him he would very much like to kill. But a man has to eat.