Chapter VII

 

 

 

A Delphic sword – Aristotle, Politics

 

Galatia

 

Malorix reckons they achieve twenty-five miles a day, give or take. After two weeks they reach Iconium, a bustling metropolis on the western slopes of the Pisidian Mountains. The city lies in the heart of the rich and fertile Roman province of Galatia, amid open farmland, mixed smallholdings and rich estates.

To avoid attracting unwanted attention the group splits into three and arrange to meet the next day at the famous icon in the town centre. Malorix accompanies Lucian and Crethon to a white three-story hotel with arched windows and brown crockery shingles. It displays a large sign identifying it as The Phrygian. The owner is a rotund man in an apron by the name of Drusus whose face sags at the sight of their government diplomas. "By the assembled gods gentlemen, you are welcome. But I swear the day The Phrygian came to the notice of Rome was the day I should have sold up and moved to the seaside."

Signed by the Emperor, or by local governors, the diploma entitles its bearer to free food and lodging at local expense. A diploma is valid in any inn designated to support the postal system and the imperial messenger service. Malorix rarely uses them. Too dangerous. These same hotels invariably host Speculatores or other informants watching for their prey in comfort with some innkeeper like Drusus footing the bill.

"Business is not thriving?" Lucian inquires, feigning interest in the innkeeper’s afflictions.

"Business has never been so good, when it pays! Every second customer here has a blasted diploma. I cannot refuse them custom or contravene the Emperor’s writ! The food and drink and the girls, all at my expense! What the governor reimburses is a pittance. I shall go broke from too much business!"

Lucian makes sympathetic noises as they eat at Drusus’ expense, and then they head for the local baths to shake off the dust of the road. It is late when they emerge. A breeze has risen. Malorix is feeling unusually chilled after his bath, but they decide to walk to the agora to stretch their legs. The streets are still alive with activity and they must step nimbly to avoid fast-moving carts loaded with produce.

"There are many accents here that are strange to me," Malorix observes as they walk. A knot of youngsters plays dice, arguing in a familiar tongue. "Is that Celtic?"

"Claudius told me of your nimble tongue. You’ll hear more of it in the countryside further north.

"What of Latin?"

"Latin is for officials and their families. Greeks for the most part won’t touch it. Only the ambitious, the literati like myself, the very rich, and … well, that about covers it. Oh, and whores. Whores must speak Latin to get on with their soldiering clients. Of course," he winks, "their vocabulary does not have to be particularly sophisticated. A couple of good pitches to capture the Latin mind. ‘Standard bearer, Can I fix that standard?’ Or perhaps, ‘Trumpeter, can I straighten that for you?’"

They pause in the square in front of a large stone bearing the image of a hero. "The Icon of Perseus," says Lucian. "We rendezvous here tomorrow. Iconium derives its name from this monument. Local legend has it that long ago the hero Perseus killed a dragon that was ravaging the town."

"You do not credit the story?"

A baleful stare. "Have you ever seen a dragon?"

"Among my people we carry a dragon standard."

"And you believe that such things exist?"

"I believe that they may have long ago."

"But you have never seen one?"

"I have not seen the gods, yet I believe."

"Thank you for making my point."

Like many things about Lucian, this kind of talk is strange and new, and Malorix is not sure he likes it. Malorix’ world consists of taking orders and following them. Report on this one, kill that one. That is the way of things. All men believe in gods and that too is part of the order of things. As they resume their walk, he wonders at his strange companion, this cauldron of words. His world seems to consist of challenging everything. He claims to be a man of culture, yet he believes in nothing.

The agora throngs with a confusion of people, animals, pushcarts and vendor stalls. Business thrives despite the lateness of the hour. The moon is bright in the sky and a large bonfire casts light for the antics of a troupe of jugglers. All manner of people regale the crowd, some standing on crates, others perched on pedestals or broken pillars. Interspersed among farmers selling their produce are a rich tapestry of purveyors of cures and prophesies. People move from one to another in small knots.

Uncharacteristically, and despite his fatigue, Malorix feels compelled to speak. "If it is as you say, there are no gods to guide us, how do you explain the multitude of people in this square who profess them?"

"Ah," says Lucian, as one rising to a challenge. "I like your choice of words. Especially the word ‘profess’. You have chosen the right place, for it is here that we can meet the true gods of this earth." He surveys the crowd with intent. "The usual collection of magicians and holy men. Many have no doubt been at this most of the day. They look a little worn out."

Upon closer inspection, the cajoling and preaching does appear half-hearted. A wise woman promotes the healing qualities of her local roots and herbs. She turns her sales pitch upon a young woman, evidently prepared to pay for a cure for her struggling daughter, whom she determinedly hauls about by the wrist. Malorix listens to a decrepit man dressed in a filthy hooded cloak. In one hand he holds a glass sphere and in the other a crooked stick. "The stars tell all! The stars are the future!" he calls, like a hawker selling sweetbreads. Another man presents himself as a devotee of Isis. She is, he advertises, the patron goddess of courtesans, several of whom are lolling nearby. A hag is seated next to him in front of a sign that announces her ability to interpret dreams.

Since leaving the bathhouse Malorix has gone from chills to warm sweats. Perspiration on his forehead congeals in the evening air. He leans against a cart to steady himself as they stand watching the old man’s performance. Lucian takes a bite out of an apricot he has purchased. "When I was a boy people still believed in the gods. Zeus, Hera, that sorry show down in Hades. They bought the entire preposterous tale without question. It brought order to their world."

"Is it not so today?"

"We live in an age of dying gods, Malorix. The temples are empty, not of people, but of conviction. Adepts flock still to their gods of marble and stone but find no comfort. Most do not really believe in these grand celestials, they merely make deals with them. What is more amusing is they are entirely unaware of their loss of faith. Blithely searching for new gods, turning even to dodgy old men like this.” He points to the facsimile. “With a foreign accent and a cheap glass ball, no less." His shoulders sag. "To get a really good performance, you must come in the early morning when they are fresh. Observe. They natter but convey no sincerity. There will be no more converts today."

"None of these performers is a believer?"

"Not one."

"How do you know?"

"Find one."

"Her." Malorix points over Lucian’s shoulder, attracted by the sound of an argument. A man is shaking his fist at a crone with a crooked back dressed in tattered rags. The woman’s voice rises, berating the man as a small crowd gathers to watch the spectacle.

"Foul witch!" the man bawls.

"Leave me, faithless wretch," she counters. "Men are shameless, false, whoring, rapacious, sinners!"

"I’ll show you whoring!" he retorts. Grasping a stout walking staff with both of his hands he draws it back in preparation to strike her. As he raises it over his head Lucian moves with surprising agility and deftly snatches it from his grip. The man swings round angrily to face him. "She stole from me!" he fairly screams in his rage.

"Of this I have little doubt." Lucian holds the staff out of reach and regards the man with aristocratic disdain. "Nevertheless, violence is not permitted. If you have grievance with this woman, go and fetch a magistrate."

The man moves to strike at Lucian, but a glance at Malorix and he thinks better of it. Thwarted, he turns to the woman and bawls, "By the gods I will! And you will be decorating the Prefect’s cells. Count on it!"

Seeing her persecutor on the brink of departure the crone resumes her theme, "Go then ignorant man! Bestial cretin!" Laughter in the crowd.

Lucian turns to Malorix. "This Jew is very expressive," he says ardently. "She has the fire, but she is no believer. I can prove it to you." He cautiously lowers the staff until the man is able to snatch it from his hand. Having achieved this small measure of redemption, he turns on his heel and stalks away, stealing angry looks at Lucian over his shoulder. The crone, meanwhile, turns her attention to Lucian and Malorix.

"Who are these adulterers? You Greeks of flippant tongue, pouring fourth foul words." Lucian wears a broad grin, evidently enjoying himself. The woman rounds on Malorix. "What Scythian devil-spawn is this?" She flails her arms at him, but stops short, peering hard, then recoiling as though in terror. Recovering her composure, she points them out to the crowd. "Harsh men! These ones laugh with sardonic smile. These of Eve’s polluted race. But mark me!" She raises her arms toward the sky as though imploring the heavens to heed her imprecations. "Mark me! The earth shaker comes! And cities, men, and all in one night will disappear from this world!"

In a whirl of cloth and rattling beads she descends again on the crowd. Malorix can hardly follow her words, as he struggles to control rising nausea. Lucian is transfixed. "She really is very good, Sarmatian. Best I’ve seen in some time."

The knot of onlookers grows, drawn to the light of her passion. "The earth shaker comes to destroy idolaters. The ample fields of today shall be barren and the fruits will fail. Temples will be robbed and lie empty and the people of seven-hilled Rome, with its riches great—shall perish! And bloody signs from heaven shall descend, as famine and plague!"

A local farmer scoffs and she turns on him like a fury. "Know then impious one that many men," she jabs a finger accusingly at him as the representative of the type, "many men shall die in the fullness of their manifold sins! Men and cities shall fall! Ephesus, Nicaea, Antioch, Smyrna, Alexandria, Rome itself …"

Head shaking from side to side she propels diamonds of sweat sparkling into the night, the very image of otherworldly madness. "The dens of the earth shall be broken apart, and Phrygia too shall tumble into the abyss."

Malorix notes mounting concern in the crowd. "She speaks of earthquakes," Lucian whispers. "Greatly feared hereabouts."

"What of Iconium?" someone calls.

"Iconium!" the crowd echoes.

"Iconium?" Crouched low she withdraws. With each step, with each sign of her reluctance to speak, their desire increases to learn the secrets that only she can reveal.

"What of Iconium?" More townsfolk take up the chorus. She retires behind a copper vase that lays awaiting the contributions of the passers-by. Coins clatter, their steady percussion testimony to her power over the crowd. She looks hard at Lucian. He smiles and produces three coppers from his purse and drops them one by one into the vase.

"Children of Rhea! Iconium too shall be overthrown … unless …"

The crone stoops lower still and covers her head with a shawl. "There need be auguries," she says darkly. The crowd shuffles and stirs. "Come tomorrow before dusk. I’ll reveal all." With that she slides nimbly into the shadows between a pair of vendor stalls and curls up beneath her cloak. A few groans of disappointment, and a cat call, but the crowd disperses chattering excitedly.

"Brilliantly done!" Lucian says enthusiastically, bringing his hands together in gentle applause. "She’ll get twice the custom and revenue tomorrow." With the throng moving on, he seats himself in front the woman, tugging gently at her shawl. "Excellent work, my dear. What lies will you finish them off with tomorrow? I won’t be here, but I’m dying to know how it turns out."

She lowers the cloth and snarls, "Hence, foul heretic!"

Lucian looks up at Malorix. "You see my friend, I have been observing such as this for a good many years now. I can spot a fraud a mile off." He turns to her. "What is your name, woman?"

"My name," she hisses, "is my own affair." Curiously, Malorix notices that her eyes are fixed upon him, not Lucian, and she rocks gently to and fro, muttering as if reciting a verse or an incantation to drive him away.

"Like that, is it?" Lucian says, reaching once more into his purse. He withdraws a silver denarius and holds it in the woman’s face between his thumb and forefinger. He leans in close and says quietly, "You could live on this for weeks."

The coin draws her attention from Malorix. "What do you want of me?"

Lucian reaches forward and taps on her crooked back with a knuckled fist, producing a hard staccato sound. "Wood," he pronounces. "Where on earth did you acquire a wooden hump?"

"What of the coin?" she says, ignoring his question.

"If you admit to be a fraud you can have it."

She snatches the coin angrily. "I made it, all right?" The scratchy tenor of the crone has been replaced by a new voice, husky and youthful.

"You are not nearly as old as your costume would convey. How old are you?"

"What are you, a censor?"

"You are no Jew," Lucian continues, regarding her afresh. He reaches forward to roll back a push-cart, allowing the moonlight to fall on her face. "No, I think perhaps you are not a Jew. A Celt, a Christian maybe. The blue eyes give you away." He considers her thoughtfully. "Why do you impersonate a Jew?"

She hugs her knees and clenches her teeth. "She wants more money." Lucian looks up. "Give her some, Malorix."

Malorix is by now both irritable, dizzy, and desperately tired. "She has nothing I want nor anything we need. Leave her."

"On the contrary. This … this … my dear, you really must tell me your name. What are you called?"

Perhaps sensing there might be more money in it she responds quietly. "I am called Thecla."

"Thecla, indeed." Lucian taps her again on her hump. "Tell me, Thecla," he says, reaching for another denarius. "Why do you impersonate a Jew?"

She hesitates. "What are you? Why does a Greek wish to know these things?"

"I am the person with another silver denarius. That is all you need to know for the present."

Perplexed, she is again attentive to the coin in Lucian’s hand. "Many people here follow the old gods, but there are also many Jews in Iconium. Jews prefer to get their oracles from Jews. The pagans think Jews are mysterious and strange. To please everybody, a soothsayer should be a Jew."

Lucian touches her cheek with his hand and wipes it on her scarf. "This is paint," he says. "You are not old at all, and perhaps even quite pretty. The makeup is clever. Ingenious, in fact."

Malorix is sweating profusely now and follows their talk with difficulty. "Lucian, enough. Let us go."

Lucian signals for him to wait as he holds out the denarius. "Tell me, Thecla. If you tell me you will do a thing, can I trust you to do it?"

"Depends," she says, "Whose laws must I break?"

"Excellent wit. None. I would like to employ you."

"Employ me?" She laughs harshly. "I’ve never heard it called that before."

"An old crone like you?" He smirks. "No, no. Really employ."

"As what?"

"As what you are. A fine actor."

"Actor?"

"Not in a play. An actor in real life. In my line of work I have need of persons who can pretend to be other than what they are and make others believe it. You manifest a certain talent in that domain."

"You are a pimp."

"No."

"What is your business?"

"Let that be my little secret, for now." He tosses the denarius on to her lap. "There’s more where that came from. The pay is regular and the work is pleasant, even interesting. If you can see fit to give up all of this ..." He waves his arm grandly to the market closing for the night, then scrambles to his feet and dusts himself off. "I’m quite serious. Now listen carefully. You will make your way to Smyrna. You know it?"

"Yes."

"At the second crossroads on the Ephesus road ask for Timon the Syrian. Wait for him there. Tell him you are sent from Lucian, for Antioch. He will understand. You should leave soon. The moon is high and I want you there before the next moon rises. Do you understand?"

She nods. "Who is your friend?" she says through taut features.

"A friend. Why do you ask?"

She looks away. "It is nothing. He looks poorly."

"Come along, Malorix. The sun has faded and there are all manner of people about, vagabonds, brigands, magi, and prophets…"

Turning away to the hotel Malorix hazards a glance back at Thecla. As her eyes catch the firelight, he can feel their weight upon him. "What was that all about?" he mutters to Lucian as he struggles to contain his now fully palpable nausea.

"She’s no more a believer than I am. I told you, Malorix, the number of true believers in the world is miniscule. The majority of the faithful is composed of charlatans like that one, or people who can’t be bothered to think."

"No, the last part, about Smyrna."

"My dear, part of my value to our imperial masters is talent-spotting. My stable is depleted. An acute shortage of women operatives, for I lost two of my best last winter to the pox. I have need of one with these thespian qualities in Antioch."

"And you believe she will embark on such a journey on your word and a denarius?"

"Two denarii, actually, and three coppers … and if she cannot, of what use is she?" Lucian’s hand comes down painfully upon his shoulder. "You do not look well, Sarmatian. Come, Drusus will fix you something. As to the girl, leave her to me."