It was odd behaviour. Why had the man scurried away? It was most unlikely the man was a Christian. The zeal of the scribe to the Demos, Flavius Damianus, would not have left a prominent citizen who belonged to the cult free to stroll the agora. Flavius Damianus – there was a man with a fire for persecution. Then Ballista half-remembered something. What was it that Flavius Damianus had said in court? The emperors demanded the sternest measures; those around them urged the same. Those around them? Who could it mean except Macrianus, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae? Macrianus must have communicated with Flavius Damianus. Why? Ballista had publicly insulted Macrianus. He had hit one of his sons. Then the sons had three times tried to kill him. Macrianus was a powerful man who, on any count, should be numbered an enemy. Why had he urged that Ballista be sent to Ephesus in the first place? And now it seemed that Macrianus was communicating with the most important magistrate in Ephesus. What deep and sinister game was Macrianus the Lame playing? Again, Ballista felt like an ordinarius in a game of latrunculi – picked up and dropped by an unseen hand.
In the north-east corner of the agora, beyond the temporary wooden livestock pens, were permanent stone cells for the instruments with voices. Ballista's enjoyment of the colour and bustle of markets was always tainted by this area, but something always forced him to go there, always forced him to do what he was about to do.
Men with broad faces and brutal eyes lounged about. They watched Ballista and his companions approach. One of the men stepped forward.
'Good day, Kyrios,' he said, in heavily accented Greek. 'What are you looking for – a girl, a boy?'
Ballista looked at him, the disgust rising in his throat. Behind him, he sensed Demetrius' fear and Maximus' hostility.
Realizing he was on the wrong tack, the slave dealer flashed an oily smile. 'A maid for your wife maybe? Very clean, very trustworthy? Or another well-educated Greek boy to keep your books? Another pair of strong arms to guard your treasures?'
'I will know what I want if I see it,' said Ballista.
'Of course, of course.' The slave dealer grinned ingratiatingly. 'It is always an honour to serve a kyrios of discrimination, a man who knows his own mind. Please feel free to inspect the goods.'
Ballista stepped past him and regarded the huddled, downtrodden humanity there. Then, in a voice pitched to carry, he called out in his native tongue. 'Are there any Angles here?'
Faces pinched with misery looked at him with blank incomprehension. Ballista felt a wave of relief and turned to go. Corvus was striding purposefully towards him. The eirenarch of Ephesus was followed by a couple of burly Men of the Watch carrying clubs. Between them was a skinny old man in rags. Not another fucking Christian, thought Ballista. They brought it on themselves, but he had not realised until yesterday just how distasteful it was to act as a persecutor.
'Vicarius, we need a word with you in private.' Corvus led them to the centre of the agora. The few people promenading there gave the Watch a wide berth. Corvus stopped under the equestrian statue of Claudius. Cast in bronze, the emperor looked nothing like the slobbering, twitching simpleton described by Suetonius.
'This is Aratos.' Corvus indicated the man in rags. 'He is a fisherman from out of town. Has his hut on Pigeon Island. It is in a bay not far south of here.' The eirenarch turned to the fisherman. 'Tell the vicarius what you saw.'
Ballista realized that the fisherman was on the verge of tears. 'I was out in the boat last night – a good catch, plenty of…' Corvus gestured without impatience for him to get to the point. 'Sorry, Kyrios. I was bringing the boat in at first light. I knew something was wrong. My wife…' He paused, fighting down the tears. 'My wife is always down by the water waiting. She worries. We live on our own on the island. She was not there. I saw them in time. Took the boat out again. Barbarians. Lots of fucking northern barbarians. My wife, my children…' Now he cried.
Ballista gently put his hand on the man's shoulder. 'How many boats?'
The fisherman mastered himself. 'Just one – a big longboat, about fifty rowing benches.'
'Does anyone else know they are there?'
The man wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. 'Their boat was almost out of sight up under the trees. We keep to ourselves. I should not think so.' The fisherman dropped to his knees and clasped Ballista's legs, the classic pose of a suppliant. 'Kyrios, my wife, my children…'
'We will help.' Disengaging himself, Ballista indicated for Corvus to step out of earshot with him. 'Is he reliable?' Corvus shrugged. 'You are the local man,' Ballista continued. 'What do you think?'
'I have not spoken to him before. I think he is telling the truth.'
Ballista considered this for a moment. 'Are there any warships in harbour?'
'No.'
'How many troops are there in Ephesus?'
'Just a detatchment of about a hundred auxiliary spearmen and fifty bowmen.'
'How many Men of the Watch do you have under your command?'
'Fifty.'
'It will have to be tonight. If they are still there. We do not have much time. We need a plan.' The lantern at the top of the mast swung gently against the night sky. Ballista watched it from where he lay, next to Maximus, in the bottom of the small fishing boat. Both men were completely naked but it was a warm August night, and they had thought to bring blankets. Apart from the strong stench of fish, Ballista was quite comfortable.
Above them, Corvus, the old fisherman and an auxiliary soldier, all clad in rags, worked the boat. To give an air of normality, they talked quietly in Greek as they fished. The little boat edged south into the bay towards Pigeon Island. Corvus sat down on a bench next to Ballista's head. 'Not far now,' he said, 'about half an hour.'
The old fisherman had sketched a map of Pigeon Island. It was roughly oval, with two tiny bays to the south. All its coasts were rocky, except the eastern, where there was a narrow band of sand. The barbarians had beached their vessel at the extreme southern end of the sand, drawing it up the few yards to the tree line. Careful observation from the fishing boat had revealed a large campfire up on the highest point of the island and a smaller one halfway up the slope from the longboat.
The plan was straightforward. Ballista and Maximus were to swim ashore with short swords and combustibles in waterproof packs strapped to their backs, kill any sentries and fire the longboat. Once it was well ablaze, they would swim to safety on the southern headland of the bay. The mainland here was only a couple of hundred paces away to the south. With luck, as the barbarians rushed to fight the fire, they would be slow to notice the two large merchant galleys, crammed with one hundred and fifty soldiers, bearing down on the beach. The galleys were a worry. Coming down from the north, there was no headland close enough for them to hide behind. Now they were lying with no lights aboard about a mile off in the open water. To lessen the chance of a barbarian spotting them, Ballista had arranged for another half-dozen fishing boats with bright lanterns to ply their nets between the galleys and the island.
All depended on the barbarians being unsuspecting. Local pirates would have had contacts ashore who may have warned them of the preparations. It was unlikely anyone in Ephesus would want to aid the barbarians – although, to be on the safe side, Corvus' Men of the Watch had been stopping any unauthorized person leaving the city by land or sea since midday.
Corvus had argued vehemently that it was madness for Ballista to swim ashore – let a couple of the auxiliaries do it. Overruling him, Ballista had pointed out that it might be necessary to lull the suspicions of barbarian sentries, and none of the soldiers spoke the language of Germania. But now, as he lay in the boat, he knew the real reason he had insisted on going himself: the excitement that for a time would free him from thinking about his unpleasant task as a persecutor.