'Are Demetrius or Maximus about?'
'No, the Greek boy is out and the Hibernian is' – a horrible leer crept over Calgacus' face – 'entertaining a friend.'
'Allfather, it would not do to interrupt that,' Ballista said, deadpan. 'Send a boy down to the docks with these. Tell him to find a ship heading for Seleuceia in Pieria and pay the captain to make sure they are delivered in Antioch.'
With only a minor string of muttered complaints, Calgacus left. Once he had gone, Ballista picked up one of the confiscated writings. And the beast was given a mouth, uttering haughty and blasphemous words, and it was allowed to exercise authority for forty-two months; it opened its mouth to utter blasphemies against God, blaspheming his name and his dwelling, that is, those who dwell in heaven. Also it was allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them. Religion, thought Demetrius, is dangerous. Like strong drink, wild music, the juice of the poppy, it makes people do strange things. He knew what he was going to do. He knew he should not – apart from its sordid nature, it was illegal. It was very, very dangerous. Yet something irrational was making him do it.
Those with any claims to philosophy should not give way to irrational impulses. All the philosophical schools stressed that. Following an eclectic line, melding the doctrines of the various schools, as Demetrius himself did, was no excuse. But, still, he could not help himself.
Demetrius walked up through the city towards the Magnesian Gate. It was still raining hard, so he walked in the cover of the colonnade on the north side of the Sacred Way. Wrapped up in anticipation, he did not give the market stalls outside the East Gymnasium a glance. He stopped and looked around. The colonnade was busy, but there was no one he recognized. Everyone seemed preoccupied with keeping out of the downpour.
Demetrius waited for a gap in the line of slow-moving traffic, then crossed the rainswept road, nearly turning his ankle in one of the deep ruts cut into the stone by generations of heavy wagons. With a final furtive glance about him, he entered an alleyway. Although not blessed with a great sense of direction, he turned left and right, navigating easily through the potters' quarter. The alleys became narrower and dirtier. Mud soaked into his sandals.
He stopped at an inconspicuous door in a blank wall of peeling plaster. He knocked. As he waited, the rain ran down his neck. The door opened a crack.
'Ah, it is you again.'
The door creaked wide.
'Come in, come in.' The old man spoke in strangely accented Latin. There was no particular warmth in his voice. 'Shut the door, and leave your sandals there. I do not want mud all through my home.'
Demetrius removed his sodden footwear and followed the old man down the shabby corridor. It smelled of damp and other, harder-to-identify things. There was no light except from the cheap clay lamp the old man carried. They turned into a small room. Apart from a pile of things hidden by a cloth in one corner, it was completely bare. There was a small trench cut in the packed earth of the floor, bird droppings around it.
'Ave, Dio, son of Pasicrates.' As the old man spoke, he turned his back and lit a second lamp, which he placed on a ledge. 'What do you want this time?' He looked back, the flickering light making hollows of his sunken cheeks. He smiled a knowing smile. 'Chickens. You will want the chickens again. Each of those devoted to the dark things has his own preferred method. The chickens are infallible.'
The old man did not wait for an answer but rummaged under the cloth and produced a large wooden board. He placed it in the centre of the floor. Squares were marked on the board, in each a letter of the Latin alphabet. The old man went back to the corner and returned with a cloth bag. From it he took a handful of wheat. He placed one grain on each square and carefully tipped the remainder back into the bag. He went out, shutting the door behind him.
Left on his own in the dim light, Demetrius wondered what in his soul demanded such dangerous, guilty pleasures. He was frightened, very frightened. He had consulted the Etruscan magician before, but he had no proof the old man was trustworthy. He always gave the false name but, if he were denounced, almost certainly the frumentarii would discover his real identity. His heart was beating fast. He could ask a different, a safer question. Or, there was nothing stopping him from just leaving.
The old man returned, in one hand carrying two black cockerels by their feet. 'What question would you have the shades of the underworld reveal?'
Demetrius fumbled the usual fee from the wallet at his belt. The coins in his hand were slick with sweat. Almost against his will, he found himself asking the question.
A strange look passed over the face of the aged Etruscan. Fear, excitement, greed – Demetrius could not tell.
'It is a terrible thing you ask. You place us both in great danger – not just from the powers in this world. It will be three times the normal fee.' The old man held out his free hand, waiting until Demetrius had crossed his palm with the correct amount of silver. 'I will bar the front door.'
Alone again, Demetrius looked round the dark, dingy room. There were no windows, just the one door. No other means of escape. He looked at his bare feet, standing on an earth floor spotted with chicken shit. He thought he must be mad, or possessed by some evil daemon. But something inside him sang with the deep thrill of it all.
The old man came back. He trussed up one of the cockerels in a corner of the room. He held the other in his right hand. Signalling Demetrius to remain silent, he stood gazing down into the trench. His lips moved. At first it was inaudible, but then he began to mutter and finally chant in some rusty archaic language.
Demetrius could hardly breathe. It was 8 November, a day when the mundus, the gate to the underworld, stood open. The spirits of the dead hovered thick all around him, desperate, thirsty for blood.
A knife appeared in the magician's left hand. With a deft sweep, he cut the throat of the cockerel. Its blood spurted down into the trench. The old man's eyes became glazed. He chanted louder, in the tongue of his distant ancestors. The cockerel's body twitched. Blood dripped from the knife. The spirits feasted.
Abruptly, the old man dropped the carcass of the cockerel. The knife vanished. He turned and untied the other bird and held it near the board. As he let it free, he asked, in Latin now, the treasonous question:
'Spirits of the underworld – what is the fate of Valerian, emperor of the Romans?'
As the words faded, there was a terrible stillness. The black cockerel tipped its head on one side and regarded Demetrius with a glittering eye. It stretched its clipped wings. It made a low, crooning sound and gave its attention to the board. With a delicate, high action it stepped on to it. Its head darted from side to side, choosing which grain, the spirits guiding the selection.
The cockerel's head snapped down, then up. The square with the letter P was empty. The bird ate, regarding first one then the other of the men with suspicion. It struck again, three times in rapid succession – E, R, F. Again it paused, ruffling its feathers. It took another grain – I.
The bird was motionless. Its feathers gleamed black in the lamplight. There was perfect silence in the room. Suddenly, the cockerel flew up, scattering grains across the board, and the two men jumped as there was a loud knocking on the door of the house.
With a speed which belied his age, the Etruscan swept the board and the body of the sacrificed bird under the cloth. He grabbed the live bird with one hand and Demetrius' arm with the other. He hauled the Greek youth out of the room.
The knocking had stopped. They stood for a moment in the corridor. Someone pounded again on the front door. The old man dragged Demetrius down the passageway, the thunderous sound pursuing them.
For a moment, Demetrius thought the passage was a dead end. Someone shouted outside the house. The hammering on the door increased. The magician manhandled Demetrius through a low doorway and across a pitch-black room. The young Greek barked his shin on something hard then piled into the back of the other, who had stopped abruptly.