Winter Quarters, page 18
The senior soldier thrust a paper under my nose, and Acco stiffened. Any reminder that Romans can read, but not Gauls, put him on his dignity. I relieved the tension, rather neatly, by asking the man whether he could read it to us, or whether I should summon my clerk. In a gruff voice he explained that it was a warrant empowering him to search our quarters, at the complaint of a citizen who feared that his daughter, a freeborn Roman lady, might be concealed there.
We were dumb with astonishment, but there was nothing for it but to stand by while the legionaries rummaged through the hut and the horse-lines behind it. They found no one, for there was no one to find. Then we saw Nicanor. He came forward, shamefaced, and collapsed in tears, squatting on the edge of Acco’s bunk.
‘Forgive me, forgive me for suspecting you,’ he said through his sobs. ‘Berenice has vanished. We feared she might have come here to live with you. She slipped out early this morning alone, without even her maid for companion. We asked everyone we could think of, and learned she’d been seen in the temple of Aphrodite. My father bought a search-warrant from army headquarters, and these soldiers have searched the temple most thoroughly, even the priests’ quarters. Berenice is there no longer, wherever she may be. We feared she had come here, with some crazy idea of forcing Acco to marry her before the opening of the campaign.’
‘I haven’t seen her since we got back from Jerusalem,’ Acco answered. ‘You should remember that I left your father’s house because I thought it unbecoming to live under the same roof as the lady I am to marry.’
‘Do you think a man of such delicate feeling would steal an innocent girl from her father, especially when he will have her lawfully within the year?’ I added, to make sure that Nicanor took the point Acco was too courteous to put into words.
‘Then where can she be?’ said Nicanor in great agitation. ‘When she wasn’t with you she was usually in some temple. Those were her only amusements. Since she isn’t either in the temple or the camp I can’t imagine what has become of her.’
‘Probably raped by one of those gangsters from the new legions,’ said the senior soldier. ‘Raped and then her throat cut and her body chucked in a ditch.’ The veterans of the bodyguard had a very low opinion of the men their commander had recruited in Italy.
‘That may be,’ Nicanor muttered gloomily. ‘Perhaps we shall never find even her body to bury it. But why rape her, when there are plenty of willing whores in Antioch? Besides, she’s still a child, not a woman at all.’
Acco would not hear of the suggestion. ‘Perhaps she has been frightened by soldiers, so frightened that she ran away and hid. If she were dead I would know it, inside me. Her spirit would tell me. I am an Ovate, and I can feel these things.’
After a pause he went on: ‘I can feel her spirit, and she is not dead. When I fix my mind on her I sense her thoughts flooding into my heart. She is in hiding, hiding from her family and from the world. She wants me to find her, not anybody else. Do you hear, Camul? Pick up your sword and come with me to find her.’
It was a long time since Acco had claimed that his Ovate training gave him powers denied to ordinary men. Now he seemed inspired; certainly he imagined himself inspired, which comes to much the same thing.
It was already evening, and we had been all day in the saddle. The men of the bodyguard protested; they had carried out their search as ordered and should now go off duty. But Acco would not rest. When the soldiers left us he marched off with Nicanor and myself to cavalry headquarters. There, just by asking in a menacing voice, he got three days’leave for urgent private affairs, and a written pass to show to any military patrol who might question us. As darkness fell we set off for the city.
‘Last seen at the temple of Aphrodite,’ Acco muttered. ‘I know the one you mean. It is a favourite haunt of hers. It’s the only place in Antioch where we know she isn’t, because it’s been searched; but we may as well begin there. I want to talk to the priest who recognised her this morning.’
‘Let’s go home first,’ said Nicanor. ‘She may have come back while I was in the camp.’
At the mansion there was no news of her, and the porter explained that his master was too upset to receive guests. Young Damasippus came down to offer us refreshment in the hall, as etiquette demanded. As we drank our wine he burst out with a discovery of his own.
‘Aglae, our old nurse, just brought me this. I am the man of the house tonight, in charge of everything. Look. She found it in Berenice’s bed, among the coverlets. You see what my sister has been up to? Trying to dream heavenly dreams, just as though she were an initiate!’ The beastly little boy sneered in triumph.
‘What is it? Antimony for her eyes, I expect,’ said Acco, snatching at the little object in his fist.
‘No, that came from the temple of Aphrodite,’ said Nicanor, holding it up for all to see. It was a small clay pot, shaped and painted to resemble a woman’s breast; just one of those quaint little whimsies that make Antioch the most revolting city in the world. The nipple unscrewed as a stopper, and he opened it to show the jar was empty.
‘I’ve seen these before,’ he continued. ‘The priests give them to chosen worshippers. Inside there is a holy drug in the form of little black pellets. If you take them in a draught of wine last thing at night you are supposed to dream as the Goddess directs you.’
‘A love philtre?’ I asked under my breath, hoping Acco would not overhear.
‘Exactly. They say that if you can slip the pellets into a girl’s cup she’s yours for the taking. But I have never used it myself. This is important. It’s now a matter for the city council. Tomorrow I shall show this jar to the magistrates, and the priests of Aphrodite will have to do some explaining.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Acco. ‘Berenice was always hoping the Goddess would send her a dream. She has often told me so. But she said she couldn’t fall into the right kind of trance, because they only supply these pellets to grown men or matrons of repute.’
‘That’s right,’ Nicanor answered with a grim frown. ‘If a priest gave it to a young virgin he was breaking the law. The least that can happen is the closing of the temple, as soon as the magistrates hear of it.’
‘Why wait until the council meets tomorrow?’ Acco urged. ‘That temple never closes; they keep up the worship until dawn. Let’s go there straight away and force the truth out of them.’
He strode to the door.
There was a whiff of sticky scent and a flutter of lamp-flames as Damasippus scuttled towards the bed-chambers. His brother was too quick for him. Holding him by the ear, Nicanor hastened after us. ‘Come on, little brother,’ I heard him say, ‘you must hear us question the priests. They are friends of yours, I believe. I have heard that one of them is more than a friend.’
We hastened through empty streets between the shuttered mansions of this wealthy quarter, which had long been asleep; though from the lower town we could hear the distant din of soldiers carousing. Acco strode purposefully ahead, his hand on his sword, and an angry set to his shoulders; I kept up with him, also peering into dark corners for the benefit of any lurking thieves; behind me shuffled Nicanor, in cloak and boots, and the unwilling Damasippus, who wore only his light indoor tunic and slippers.
A priest in a high felt cap and flowing mantle chanted before the image of Aphrodite; when Acco stood over him he started, and hurried aside to light more lamps. He was a middle-aged, responsible man with an intelligent face. When he saw the little jar he frowned and paid attention.
He spoke rapidly in Greek with Nicanor; then he went off and came back with a younger priest, a stalwart young buck in a gay linen tunic. I was watching closely, and it seemed to me that the young priest’s conscience was clear. He had never given forbidden drugs to an innocent girl. But he recognised Damasippus, and the intimate smile he gave him put an idea into my head.
Plunging my hand into the pretty boy’s long curls, I gave his neck just one shake – not quite hard enough to break it.
‘Out with it, before I get angry with you,’ I snarled. ‘That priest is your lover. You asked him for the drug and he gave it.’
The priest answered in fluent Latin, before Damasippus could stammer out his denial.
‘Certainly I gave this young man the Seeds of Love. That may be irregular, since he is not yet an initiate; but it’s not a grave offence. And if his family don’t know I am his lover they know he has lovers. They come of sound Greek stock, and keep up the old customs. By the way, I also am a Roman citizen, as you can hear from my speech. So you can’t frighten me with your city council.’
‘Why did he want the drug? Did he tell you?’ Acco asked urgently.
‘To give it to a Gallic soldier in the Roman camp, a seeker after truth who yet rebels against the power of the Goddess. He wants this man to dream truly, until he acknowledges the real ruler of the world. I know the story sounds unlikely, but it happens to be true. The lady Berenice also spoke to me of this man, and a few months ago he was a guest in their household.’
Nicanor pulled my hand off Damasippus’s throat. ‘While he is under my wardship you must not kill my brother. This is a matter to be judged by our father.’
The boy wriggled free. At the entrance he turned on us, his face wet with tears.
‘You’re all the same, even Nicanor. You won’t let me love where I will. I chose Acco the Gaul the moment I set eyes on him. I chose him, I tell you! And then she stole him, my silly, simpering baby-faced sister. What did she want with a man – what did she know about love! Yes, I gave her the Seeds of Love. I know about love. Acco is blind – is blind – is blind.’ He was dancing up and down with fury, tears streaming down his face, and he looked like a weeping monkey. ‘Look at me! I am beautiful, a boy in the bloom of my youth, an ephebe, a Greek boy! Acco is a barbarian, a brute. I offer him my beautiful body and he seeks a girl, a disgusting girl! I hope he likes her when he gets her. She will have dreamed, and done what the dream told her. Berenice the bride – Acco’s bride – everyone’s bride – the barbarian’s bride – ba, ba, ba, barbarian!’
With that he skipped out into the night, and left us staring helplessly after him, too exhausted for a chase through dark streets.
‘There’s nothing for it but the city council,’ Nicanor said hopelessly. ‘Will you rest here until morning? I don’t suppose you would care to come back to my father’s house?’
Acco answered: ‘There are still six hours until dawn, and not a moment to be lost. After her dream Berenice came here, but she didn’t stay. Where would she go? Perhaps to some other shrine. To begin with, we shall search every holy place in Antioch.’ Nicanor and I followed him, though we were desperately tired. He had a plan, and that made him our leader.
We roused the priests in all the other temples, and then visited the dozens of half-forgotten shrines and sanctuaries which lurk down narrow alleys or cling to the slopes of Mount Silpius. Acco, who was fully armed, did not argue with doorkeepers. As he climbed over altars and poked behind holy images Nicanor and I kept guard; but he looked so stark that no temple-servant offered to hinder him.
By dawn we had brushed three times with the city watch, who suspected we might be robbers but feared to arrest Roman soldiers; and had disturbed the rest of a queer collection of holy men – all without result. We were dog-tired, but Acco would not let us rest. When Nicanor admitted that he knew of no more shrines in Antioch, Acco made for the river gate.
‘We shall work downstream to begin with,’ he said calmly. ‘We have three days’leave, and it’s only twenty miles to the sea. This countryside is covered with little shrines, and I know in my heart that Berenice waits in one of them. Come on, Camul, you can walk quicker than that if you try. Nicanor may sit here if he likes, or send for a litter.’
Nicanor kept up. He was only a townsman, but he carried no arms and he had been trained in the gymnasium.
We struggled westward, quartering the rugged river valley, where shrines dotted every bluff overhanging the Orontes. By mid-morning we had covered only five miles; and when we reached a long enclosure-wall, its gate guarded by armed men, I insisted on calling a halt.
‘That’s Daphne,’ said Nicanor. ‘It is a sanctuary of Apollo. Berenice never bothered about Apollo. No decent woman goes there and besides it’s out of bounds to troops. Let me hire litters from the tavern by the gate, and we can go searching beyond the Grove.’
‘This is the Raven,’ answered Acco, tapping the sword on his thigh. ‘No place is out of bounds to the man who carries her. Those watchmen may keep out Roman troops, but they will not stop a warrior of the Elusates.’
I don’t know why Acco insisted on entering Daphne; I suppose because Nicanor advised against it, but there may have been something in his boast that an Ovate sees things hidden from ordinary men. Anyway, he walked straight up to the gate. The sentries, who were temple-guards, not real soldiers, stood aside for us. Passing through a narrow wicket, we came out on a broad stretch of grass.
A furlong away stood the temple of Apollo which in theory was the centre of the whole sanctuary, a decent neat temple, but nothing out of the way. Its door hung open, and a thread of smoke rose from a tripod by the threshold; but none of the many paths that crossed the lawn led to its steps. On either side of the temple, and behind it, a grove of oaks, interspersed with laurels, filled the horizon.
The lawn was neat and smooth, and almost empty. As we stood hesitating a few seedy touts appeared from nowhere, muttering furtively in Greek which I could not follow. But the look of us, and of the swords we carried, showed these pimps that we were not the kind of customer they wanted. Nicanor brushed them away, and we followed as he hurried down a path leading to the wood.
Within the grove the trees rose straight, without undergrowth. It seemed that we could look a long way, but in fact the boles soon blocked our view; and dotted about were close screens of laurel. This was a secret place, for all its feeling of openness. Our path wandered among the trees, so that we could not look forward or back.
In the first clump of laurels lurked a little pillared hut of painted plaster. As we passed it a young negress came out. She was naked except for a few scarlet ostrich-feathers she had stuck on herself here and there. Round the next corner another hut sheltered a Syrian girl. She was dressed up in vine-leaves and fawn-skin. Then came a group of Egyptians, wearing heavy black wigs and nothing else. In this sanctuary every taste was catered for.
These whores didn’t trouble us. I suppose they had all the customers they needed; so they just let us see we would be welcome, along with the rest, and left us alone. The path wandered and turned, and we must have walked for half an hour through this delightful garden with its disgusting inhabitants.
Nicanor, very exhausted, went slower and slower. Presently Acco took the lead, striding as though he knew the goal he must reach. With eyes half-shut and mouth half-open he lurched and stumbled, unaware of his surroundings; but all the time he pushed on. It was like the end of a long hunt in the old happy days of our boyhood.
By now we had passed the best pitches, near the entrance. Instead of little painted houses the women called from miserable wicker booths, and they were battered and ugly. The path narrowed, and seemed less trodden. Acco still pushed on.
And then we came out in a little glade where three paths met. In the centre was a rough pile of boulders, about waist-high; and on it a crude figure made by plastering clay on a wooden frame. It seemed to have been done hurriedly, the sort of thing a child might make. But its significance was clear enough: three vaguely human figures joined at the back, each looking down one of the paths. In front of the piled base fluttered a low canvas shelter, and at the sound of our footsteps there emerged from it, on all fours, a tattered thing – it was some horrified minutes before we knew it for a young, a very young, girl. Her face was scratched and filthy, and her hair a bush of tangles; she wore nothing but a sheepskin wrapped below her childish breasts; under dusty ankles her rose-tinted toenails were rimmed with dirt.
She spoke in a thick, weary voice, half to herself. We could no longer hope that it was not Berenice.
‘Ah, my darling Acco! Then it was true, my dream was true! I knew it, I never doubted, never really doubted. Only sometimes – you have been a long time – sometimes I wondered. But of course I never really doubted, for the Goddess never deceives. First the dream, then the ecstasy. Then I must do what was enjoined, and then the reward. That is what they told me in the temple – and it is all true! I have done what was enjoined, I have built her image – here, do you see, I made that, really made it myself, I put it up at the three-went way, and waited for those who come down the ways; that was enjoined too, you know. But you must know, for now you yourself have come down the way. Oh, give thanks, give thanks to the Goddess, the Mother, the Bride, the adorable Goddess!’
She sprang up and flung one arm round the feet of the ugly doll; the other she bent back in what I suppose the poor child thought was a gesture of invitation. Her voice rose in a wailing chant.
‘Come Acco, my lover, this is my reward and yours. We shall share the ecstasy together and the whole earth and the sky shall share it and there will be vintage and harvest—’. All at once she stopped wailing and finished in a brisk, practical voice: ‘Camillus must wait for his turn, unless he likes to find someone else in the grove. And Nicanor must go away because he is my brother and it is not fit.’
Nicanor and I stood motionless, too astounded to answer. But Acco went and stood over the kneeling girl, erect, his hand on his sword. When he spoke he held his head high, addressing the shapeless image rather than Berenice.
‘Do you suffer this because you have offended heaven and must be punished, or because you think this worship is good in itself?’
She answered simply, like a child sure of having done well.
