Eventually they had come out. The client had actually raised his hand to point. The assassin had grabbed his wrist and dragged it down. He had thought that the young nobleman was going to hit him. The moment had passed, but neither was likely to forget it.
The assassin had studied them. There were four of them. Two mattered. The target was, as the client had described, a big, blond barbarian. Then there was the bodyguard, a vicious-looking brute with the end of his nose missing. The other two were of no consequence, a delicate-looking youth and a handsome small boy.
'Do you want me to kill the son as well?'
Again the nobleman's eyes blazed with anger. 'What do you think I am? A barbarian like him?'
The assassin had said nothing.
When the horses had been led out, the barbarian and his party had mounted and ridden off to the south. Shortly afterwards, the assassin and his client had got up and walked away. Around the corner, money had changed hands and they had gone their separate ways.
The assassin had walked to the alley, where he had tethered his donkey. He rolled up the disguises and strapped them to the saddle then set off to follow the target. As he knew the town like the back of his hand, there had been no need to hurry. He had killed many men. He was good at killing men. He just needed an opportunity – the barbarian distracted, the bodyguard at a distance. Then he would strike. It might not happen today, but the opportunity would come. Then he would collect the other half of the money, and it would be a good winter.
III
The day of the circus dawned, the twenty-fifth day of October, the fourth day since Ballista had told the emperor's consilium the fate of Arete. But for most of the inhabitants of Antioch on the Orontes, any city on the Euphrates was a long way away, its fate an irrelevance. Only three years had passed since the Persians had sacked Antioch, but to the average Antiochene that was as distant as the Trojan War.
The day of the circus started well. Long before sunrise the vault of the sky was a delicate blue, cloudless and bright. Even at that hour the six bridges to the island in the Orontes were already thronged. Of all the inhabitants of the imperium none took their pleasures with quite the deadly seriousness of the people of Antioch. Thousands of Antiochenes could be found who loved the theatre – the thousands who gazed with wonder at the turn of a pantomime dancer's leg. Then there were tens of thousands of devotees of the amphitheatre, their hearts in their mouths when the gladiators clashed and the blood splashed on the sand. But possibly even the gods themselves could not hope to number the inhabitants of Antioch-on-Orontes who lost their heads to the chariot races.
And it was not any run-of-the-mill races that they were thronging towards. This was no regular, local, Greek-style meeting, the teams funded more or less willingly by a member of the town council. This was racing in the grand Roman manner, truly metropolitan, complete with the four factions from the eternal city, the Greens, Blues, Reds and Whites, racing in the imperial style, directly commanded by the emperor, the most pious Augustus Valerian himself. The old emperor's reputation for being tight-fisted was obviously false. The ever-confident Diocles was driving for the Greens. He genuinely believed that he was by far the best; others held him arrogant. Calpurnianus was up for the Whites – if ever a man was on form, it was him. The legendary Spanish horse Candidus, as white as his name suggested, with his driver, Musclosus, and the venerable Mauretanian charioteer Scorpus had been coaxed out of retirement for the Blues and Reds respectively. It was not just politicians who were prepared to follow wherever the emperor travelled.
In the half-light, the queues, as noisy and jocose as only Antiochenes could be at such an hour, stretched back from the great red-brick hippodrome. Tickets were free, and no one could doubt that the racing arena would be full to its eighty thousand capacity, or beyond. When finally the chariot of the sun appeared over the jagged crest of Mount Silpius, almost all those waiting turned to the east and either performed complete proskynesis, prostrating themselves full length on the road, or at least the minor version of bowing slightly and blowing a kiss. The people of Antioch might or might not be considered god-fearing, but no race crowd was ever anything less than superstitious.
As the sun was coming up over the mountain, Maximus stepped out of house in the Epiphania district. There was nothing much to see in the street – a couple of men driving three laden camels, another adjusting some sacks on a donkey and, over the way, just like the day before, a vagrant sitting under the eaves close up to the still-shuttered wine shop. The litter that Maximus had hired was late. He crossed over. The beggar was asleep. Maximus stopped himself from throwing a handful of low-denomination coins. Instead he crouched down and quietly placed the coppers under the man's hand. The man did not move. Maximus noticed a long, dog-legged scar on the man's right hand. He stood up and turned his back. He looked away down the street, waiting.
The litter, a sturdy affair in light blue, rounded the corner. Maximus called to one of the houseboys to tell the dominus that it had arrived.
As the litter reached the house, Ballista emerged. His body servant Calgacus was fussing around him. Ballista was clad in a gleaming white toga with the narrow purple band of the equestrian order. The golden ring of that order that flashed on his finger was eclipsed by the blaze of the golden crown on his head. The crown, about three inches high, was in the stylized shape of the walls of a city. Very few men had the right to wear the corona muralis, the mural crown that proclaimed that its wearer had been the first to scale enemy battlements. Few men lived to tell the tale and receive the honour. As a youth serving in North Africa, Ballista had been desperate for distinction, and he had been very, very lucky.
Julia emerged, dignified and demure in the stola of a Roman matron. She held Isangrim by the hand. The boy's long hair, so carefully brushed, to its owner's fury, shone in the sunlight. He regarded the litter solemnly before announcing that it was blue, and that it was a good omen. Ballista, Calgacus and Maximus exchanged a smile. Although all three men followed the Whites, they knew that the boy supported the Blues. It was no accident that the litter was light blue.
The family were handed in and the litter was lifted on to the broad shoulders of its eight bearers. Maximus sent a couple of burly porters with big sticks in front to clear a passage. He adjusted the sword on his left hip and the dagger on his right. Maximus took his station by Ballista's side of the litter, Calgacus by Julia's. The bodyguard looked round to check that all was well, and gave the signal to move off.
Under the eaves of the wine shop, the vagrant stirred. He picked up the coins and scratched the scar on his right hand as he watched the litter set off. After a few moments he stood up and followed.
The passage of the litter from house to hippodrome was not quick. The notoriously independent-minded hoi polloi of Antioch were never keen to show due deference to rank or station. They were remarkably reluctant to move aside, even for big men with big sticks. As the litter passed they called out jibes, some funny, many innovative in their obscenity. The family, Calgacus and the bearers feigned deafness. Maximus shot glowering glances from side to side. Once, Ballista leant out and laid a restraining hand on the Hibernian bodyguard's arm when a pleb was about to pay the price for having the temerity to barge up against the litter. The Antiochene crowd was always volatile. It never took much to spark a street fight, or even a riot.