V

The City of Byzantium on the Bosporus

Six days before the Kalends of June AD236

Byzantium at last, and with it privacy. The Chresmos was a big merchantman, but not so big that it could provide a private cabin for a passenger who had clumped up the gangplank with two slaves just before it had weighed anchor. No remonstrations, and not all the money in the world could change that. The whole way from Abonouteichus to the Bosporus it had had to beat into the gusting westerly winds. Its master had stood well out to sea until they tacked around Cape Ancyreum, and it had stopped at no ports until it had docked at Byzantium. The voyage had taken twelve days. Twelve crowded and uncomfortable days in which Censorinus had never let the leather pack out of his sight, but could find no opportunity to study its contents.

Escaping from the Temple of Glycon had proved easy. Censorinus was not proud of his conduct. He could have fitted more scrolls in the bag. The snake had unsettled him. After his precipitous retreat from the room, he had walked down the stairs, holding the lamp aloft, peering nervously into the shadows. Outside the courtyard had been still and empty in the flood of moonlight. The rope was still hanging undisturbed. It had been the work of moments to shin up it, climb the roof, resecure the grappling hook, and slide down the other side. The rope he left dangling. It would have made too much noise trying to get the hook free, and nothing connected it to him. After crossing the gardens, he had scrambled over the outer wall, and hid in the wood. There he had washed the burnt cork off his face, and the residual blood from his arms. It was a short walk to the villa. Rousing his slaves, ordering them to pack, and be quick about it, he had reached the berth of the Chresmos in the pale light of the false dawn.

Censorinus settled on a couch, and took a drink. He had taken a well-appointed room at an inn overlooking the Golden Horn. There was wine warming on a brazier by the window. The slaves despatched to the market, at last he had solitude. No time like the present. He undid the drawstring of the pack, and tipped the contents out at his feet.

Looking down at the heap of papyrus rolls, Censorinus paused. He considered the power of these documents. The world literally was at his feet. It would not be hard for a trained frumentarius to disappear, to lose himself in the millions of subjects of the empire. An imperial spy always dwelt in the shadows. Sicily, Hispania, North Africa, there were many good places to live. Anywhere but Rome, or the wretched mountain slopes of the Alps where he had grown up. Of course there would be a risk when he had to emerge from the obscurity in which he had cloaked himself in order to contact the fools who had committed treasonous queries to writing. But it was in their interest to keep quiet, and they were accustomed to being blackmailed.

Censorinus picked up a scroll at random. He broke the seal, and unrolled the papyrus.

Should I journey to Italy by land or sea?

Censorinus tossed it aside, reached for another.

What should I do to gain relief from the colic?

One after another, faster and faster, just scanning them. Crop failures and bankruptcy, hernias and blindness, adultery and impotence; nothing but the quotidian complaints of rich and poor. Lucian had lied. No one asked when the Emperor would die. Or perhaps Lucian had been right, everything about the Oracle of Glycon was a fraud, even its power over others.

Censorinus looked up as his slaves entered the room without knocking.

‘I did not send for you.’

‘No.’ The taller of the two smiled, and reached under his cloak.

Censorinus went for his sword. The other slave had it in his hands.

‘What … What do you want?’ Censorinus had no weapon, but he was not going to die like a sheep. His eyes searched the room: the slaves, the door behind them, the window, the poker by the brazier.

‘We want the papyri. You did well getting them. If you had failed, in the disturbance of your execution, we would have secured them.’

The poker was just out of reach.

‘Perhaps that was what Vollo intended, naming you and your father after notorious thieves. Now hand them over.’ The taller one smiled, and held up a small metal disk. On it was inscribed MILES ARCANA. ‘We both outrank you.’

Censorinus sat back, and laughed. ‘Much pleasure they will give you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Health and great joy.’