governed the armed provinces of Moesia and Pannonia. Aided by Attalus of the Marcomanni, they watched the bellicose hordes of the Carpi, Sarmatians, Quadi and Vandals.
The west was different. The vile pretender Postumus – oath-breaker, child-murderer – squatted in Gaul. Corrupt, self-seeking courtiers, traitors to a man, whispered foulness in his ears. The fickle legions along the Rhine swore their sacrilegious oaths to him. The provinces of Britain and Spain – stately matrons reduced to whores – grovelled and submitted to his will. Even the proud barbarians of the distant north had taken his tainted subsidies. The Frisii, the Saxons, even the Angles had ceased to raid the territories he tyrannized. This year the latter at least should change – Gallienus had sent mandata and men to put his plans for the far north in motion. This year also he would deal with Raetia, the rebellious province nestling at his feet north of the Alps. These things done, next year, Gallienus Invictus would march at the head of the field army, cross the Alps and unleash the full terror of his revenge.
Across the glittering sea, away to the south, the sun beat down on Africa. All was soporific. But in the haze of the heat strange rumours coiled up. The native rebel Faraxen was not dead. Somewhere, in a cave in the High Atlas, his disembodied head sang songs of revolution and apocalypse.
Gallienus dismissed the fragments of this fevered dream and turned his eyes back to the east. If Odenathus, the man he had appointed Corrector Totius Orientis , remained loyal, nothing could halt next year’s descent into Gaul. If Odenathus remained loyal …
III
Olbia
Achilles’ hair was thick, lovelier than gold. His nose was not quite aquiline, but almost so; his brow the shape of a crescent. The bluish-grey eyes of the hero held a certain eagerness. A soft breeze moved through the tops of the poplars and elms around the sanctuary. Herons and cranes glided low, the seawater falling like dew from their wings. Patroklos moved closer; head held straight, as if in a wrestling school, nostrils flared like an impatient horse. His olive skin looked good to touch. Dark, black eyes gazed at Achilles. The act of desire begins in the eyes.
The trampling of horses. High, shrill, female yelps. A myriad of gulls took flight raucously. The Amazons streamed towards the sanctuary, crying aloud and driving on their mares. Achilles bounded up, shouting his great shout. The mares refused, the war cry inflicting on them terror greater than any bit or switch. Rearing and plunging, they threw their riders. The Amazons sprawled, bruised and dazed, on the ground. The horses took on the habits of wild beasts, bristled their manes, pricked up their ears like savage lions. They fell on their former riders; tearing at the forearms of the supine women, stamping down with their sharp hooves. After they had broken open their chests, they devoted themselves to the entrails, gulping them down. The sanctuary was a slaughterhouse, horrible beyond measure. The women were lying everywhere, still breathing and half eaten. Everywhere, severed limbs and pieces of flesh, slobbered with bestial saliva.
Amantius clutched the threads of the dream, the mingled lust and revulsion. He opened his eyes. The small attic room. His boy, Ion, asleep across the threshold. Space was at a premium in the inhabited quarter of Olbia, let alone here on the acropolis.
He woke Ion, sent him to buy fresh fruit and oxygala , and honey to sweeten the yoghurt. There was no need to live like a barbarian, even if surrounded by them. He told Ion to get himself bread, not slave bread. Amantius fancied himself a kind master.
When the boy had gone, Amantius propped himself up on his cushions, his considerable paunch rising and falling with his breathing. He thought he should write to Censorinus. Privacy was hard to come by to write secret letters. His chubby fingers reached for his writing block and stylus.
The west was different. The vile pretender Postumus – oath-breaker, child-murderer – squatted in Gaul. Corrupt, self-seeking courtiers, traitors to a man, whispered foulness in his ears. The fickle legions along the Rhine swore their sacrilegious oaths to him. The provinces of Britain and Spain – stately matrons reduced to whores – grovelled and submitted to his will. Even the proud barbarians of the distant north had taken his tainted subsidies. The Frisii, the Saxons, even the Angles had ceased to raid the territories he tyrannized. This year the latter at least should change – Gallienus had sent mandata and men to put his plans for the far north in motion. This year also he would deal with Raetia, the rebellious province nestling at his feet north of the Alps. These things done, next year, Gallienus Invictus would march at the head of the field army, cross the Alps and unleash the full terror of his revenge.
Across the glittering sea, away to the south, the sun beat down on Africa. All was soporific. But in the haze of the heat strange rumours coiled up. The native rebel Faraxen was not dead. Somewhere, in a cave in the High Atlas, his disembodied head sang songs of revolution and apocalypse.
Gallienus dismissed the fragments of this fevered dream and turned his eyes back to the east. If Odenathus, the man he had appointed Corrector Totius Orientis , remained loyal, nothing could halt next year’s descent into Gaul. If Odenathus remained loyal …
III
Olbia
Achilles’ hair was thick, lovelier than gold. His nose was not quite aquiline, but almost so; his brow the shape of a crescent. The bluish-grey eyes of the hero held a certain eagerness. A soft breeze moved through the tops of the poplars and elms around the sanctuary. Herons and cranes glided low, the seawater falling like dew from their wings. Patroklos moved closer; head held straight, as if in a wrestling school, nostrils flared like an impatient horse. His olive skin looked good to touch. Dark, black eyes gazed at Achilles. The act of desire begins in the eyes.
The trampling of horses. High, shrill, female yelps. A myriad of gulls took flight raucously. The Amazons streamed towards the sanctuary, crying aloud and driving on their mares. Achilles bounded up, shouting his great shout. The mares refused, the war cry inflicting on them terror greater than any bit or switch. Rearing and plunging, they threw their riders. The Amazons sprawled, bruised and dazed, on the ground. The horses took on the habits of wild beasts, bristled their manes, pricked up their ears like savage lions. They fell on their former riders; tearing at the forearms of the supine women, stamping down with their sharp hooves. After they had broken open their chests, they devoted themselves to the entrails, gulping them down. The sanctuary was a slaughterhouse, horrible beyond measure. The women were lying everywhere, still breathing and half eaten. Everywhere, severed limbs and pieces of flesh, slobbered with bestial saliva.
Amantius clutched the threads of the dream, the mingled lust and revulsion. He opened his eyes. The small attic room. His boy, Ion, asleep across the threshold. Space was at a premium in the inhabited quarter of Olbia, let alone here on the acropolis.
He woke Ion, sent him to buy fresh fruit and oxygala , and honey to sweeten the yoghurt. There was no need to live like a barbarian, even if surrounded by them. He told Ion to get himself bread, not slave bread. Amantius fancied himself a kind master.
When the boy had gone, Amantius propped himself up on his cushions, his considerable paunch rising and falling with his breathing. He thought he should write to Censorinus. Privacy was hard to come by to write secret letters. His chubby fingers reached for his writing block and stylus.
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