'Of course.' Somewhat taken aback, Ballista spoke quickly to her. 'I will decide your place of exile soon. I should have done so sooner. In the meantime, I hope you are not too uncomfortable? I see you have a curtain for some privacy.'
'It is not for privacy,' interjected Aulus. 'I erected it myself. She is another heretic, a follower of Apollos, a long-damned local heresiarch. The curtain is to prevent her spreading contagion to those of the true church confined here.'
Behind the curtain the child started to cry. The woman went to soothe it. Aulus laughed. Anger rising in him, Ballista turned on his heel and left.
Back in the civic agora, standing outside in the fresh air by the Bouleuterion, Ballista called the head gaoler over. The anger hot in him, Ballista spat out orders. No visitors were to be admitted to the Christians. No one was to take in food, drink, lamps, clothes, bedding; above all, no books. Let them live on prison fare, nourish themselves with prayer. Any gaoler found breaking these orders, found taking a bribe, would be treated as a Christian suspect. He would find himself on the rack, heading for the arena. The cells were to be searched; any luxuries, anything treasonous, was to be confiscated. Aulus Valerius Festus and the old fool who talked in tongues were to be thrown in the deepest dungeon.
Ballista paced furiously back and forth across the Stoa Basilica. The old man would probably die in there. Maybe the equestrian would too. Perhaps they all would. Good. Most likely it was what they wanted anyway. Fuck them. The Christian woman? Fuck her too. Fuck them all. Christians to the lion.
But the woman had a child. The boy must be what? About a year old. Two days earlier, news had reached Ballista from Antioch: he had a second son. Born five days before the kalends of December, the boy was healthy, the mother doing well. Imagine if the fates had been different. What if Julia and the boy were imprisoned? What — a more horrible thought than any — if Isangrim were in the dark hell of an imperial gaol?
'Wait!' Ballista looked away, beyond the civic agora, beyond the red-roofed houses climbing the slopes. He looked up to the bare mountainside above, where the grey slabs of rock thrust through the greenery. It was nothing like his homelands in the north, but it was untouched by the imperium. It was wild and free. It was clean. That bastard Corvus was right: Ballista hated this. It was not even as if the people he was persecuting seemed to belong to the same sect as the bastard who had betrayed him in Arete. He was caught between Scylla and Charybdis: on the one hand, the self-righteous intransigence of the Christians; on the other, the implacably cruel imperial orders and the inhuman gloating of the pagan mob. What was Ballista doing to these Christians? What was he doing to himself?
As he rescinded his orders, Ballista made a vow to himself. That very day, he would send the woman and child to a comfortable place of exile, one as safe as he could find. Then he made another vow to himself, a much more dangerous one: the persecution in Ephesus would stop. He could not order it. But there must be a way to make the process fail, to bring it grinding to a halt.
Ballista thought of the volatile crowd in the stadium at Ephesus. He thought of the riot in the hippodrome in Antioch. Yes, there was a way. The first duty of a governor was public order. He was the vicarius to a governor. Therefore, his first duty must be public order. He knew the sophistry would not save him if he were caught. It was ridiculously dangerous. But a man has to have a code to live by. A man has to live with himself. It was an upmarket brothel, just across from the library of Celsus in the centre of town. Maximus had chosen it. He had been there once or twice, not enough to be a regular. The high prices meant it was seldom very full, and he had wanted somewhere quiet to talk to Calgacus about the very dangerous thing they would do the next day.
'Do you know what she said to me?' Maximus beamed.
'No, I do not.' Calgacus' tone and demeanour showed a supreme lack of interest.
'She said' — Maximus drew himself up to his full height — 'she said I was the best she ever had.' He raised his arms from his sides, spread them wide. He half turned, first one way then the other; a victorious gladiator basking in the applause, waiting for the palm of victory.
'Interesting — her only speaking Aramaic, and you not knowing a word of that language.'
Maximus grinned. 'Oh, brother, I could tell — that is what she was trying to say in her funny lingo.'
When there was no response, Maximus dropped his trousers and undergarment to his ankles. Lifting his tunic, he took the next seat to Calgacus in the communal lavatory.
The brothel really was upmarket — it had running water. Maximus leant forward and picked up the sponge on a stick from the trough in front of him. He fidgeted with it. 'Sure, but I have almost got used to the Roman habit of having company when you shit.'
'I cannot tell you how happy that makes me,' Calgacus replied.
Although they were the only two in the privy, Maximus looked all round in an unconscious parody of shiftiness. Reassured that there was no one else there, he bent over to Calgacus and spoke quietly. 'Did you see your man?'
'Aye.'
'And…?'
'It was good.'
Maximus replaced the sponge. 'I still say it is a mistake of the Dominus to involve one of the factiones from the theatre.' He held up his hand to forestall an interruption from Calgacus that did not come. 'I grant you, the theatre gangs have the organization to get the numbers out. They are always up for trouble. There is never a riot in any city in the imperium and them not behind it — although why they usually get so worked up about some mincing dancers who have probably been taking it up the arse since they could crawl I cannot see. No, your problem is that they are too well known. Everyone knows who is the head of each factio. It makes an easy trail. The frumentarii find your man. He leads them to you. Then you lead them to Ballista. And then I am next to the pair of you in the palace cellars with someone dancing on my bollocks.'
'Aye, all life is a risk.'
'Until just now, only you, me and Ballista knew the plan. Not even Demetrius knew. Now, half the idlers in Ephesus must know.' He picked up the sponge again. 'And if we were going to a factio,' Maximus continued, 'it should have been me that talked to the head man.'
There was a horrible grating, wheezing sound. Calgacus was laughing. 'Wonderful, a half-witted Hibernian with the end of his nose missing — what could be more inconspicuous?'
Maximus bridled. 'And what about you, you old fucker? An ugly old Caledonian with a face that could turn milk at a hundred paces, fucking great dome of a head.'
'I wore a hat,' Calgacus said simply. 'Anyway, when do I get to leave the proconsul's palace? Next to no one in Ephesus knows me. My man has been well paid. How did you get on?'
With an instantaneous change of mood that even the briefest acquaintance revealed as quite customary, Maximus grinned again. 'As you would expect from a man of my qualities — wonderful. Five wild boys from Isauria. They would cut their own mothers' throats for a few coins. And, the best of it is, they sail with the evening breeze tomorrow.'
'If they are they still alive and the frumentarii have not got them.'
'Brother, your cup is always half empty.'
'Maybe so, but as we may well not be able to tomorrow — you know, us being dead or on the rack — tonight I am going to have a few drinks and a lively-looking girl.'
They both got up and began to clean themselves with two of the sponges.
'Poor girl, but sure, you have the right of it. And tomorrow is Saturnalia. Back when I was a gladiator, I always enjoyed myself the night before a fight.' Maximus tossed his sponge back into the trough of running water. 'I think I am ready for another — that plump little Syrian. It is good of you to offer to pay.'
'I did not.'
As they adjusted their clothing, Maximus spoke softly again. 'Just so it is fixed in my mind, when do we start?'
'How many times do you have to be told? When they bring Aulus Valerius Festus, the Christian with equestrian status, into the arena.'
XXI
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br /> It was the seventeenth day of December, the first day of the festival of the Saturnalia. It was the best of days for the slaves of Ephesus, but the free men were not going to be left out. The afternoon before, they had exchanged small presents: perhaps a jar of wine, a hare or a plump bird, maybe the traditional candles and clay dolls; sometimes, among the less well to do, just a garland of wild flowers. That morning many groups of friends and colleagues had thrown dice to determine which of their number would be their King of the Saturnalia, the one whose every command, no matter how ridiculous or embarrassing, must be obeyed. Most, slave as well as free, hoped to dine on suckling pig that evening. And that was just the start. There were seven days of hard drinking and partying to be done. But the crowd gathered in the stadium for the spectacles, for the munera, did not seem particularly happy.
Up in the presiding magistrate's box, standing behind the right shoulder of his kyrios, Demetrius hardly noticed the mood of the crowd. He wished he had been given a day's leave, like Maximus and Calgacus. He loathed everything about the munera. The beast fights in the morning, the spectacular executions at noon, the sweaty, overfed gladiators huffing and puffing in the afternoon: he despised them all. It was difficult to number the reasons for his dislike. The munera were not Hellenic. The stadium had been built for something worthy, for athletics, for free citizens to run, perfect in their nakedness, competing for honour. Now, its very structure altered, it hosted slaves and criminals, worse than the savage animals, screaming, bleeding, pleading for their lives. The munera were not a thing of Hellas. They were a disgusting import; one of the very worst things that had come with the disaster of Roman rule. The munera were not only barbaric, they appealed to the basest appetites of the sordid hoi polloi. Again and again, they chanted, 'Blood on the sand,' as if no Hellene had ever made offerings before an altar dedicated to Pity.
Of course, there was something far worse than all this. Worst of all, the munera were a dangerous threat to every individual spectator. The excitement, the power of the spectacle, was hard to keep out. An unguarded moment, and in it slipped by the eyes and ears and, there, insidiously in the soul of a man, its raw emotion undermined self-control, attempted to overthrow the very rationality that made a man what he was: a man, not a beast.
A loud jeering from the crowd brought Demetrius back to his surroundings. Near the magistrate's box, a King of the Saturnalia had ordered one of his group to strip and sing. The elected man stood unhappily naked in the keen north wind. His tormentor, face blackened, threadbare imitation of royal robes flapping, hopped around him, miming the castration of the victim with a ceremonial scythe. The singer's barbaric Greek, an up-country accent from Cappadocia or Isauria, was drowned by boos and catcalls. It crossed Demetrius' mind to wonder what this King did when it was not Saturnalia. There was something very familiar about the capering figure under the tawdry get-up.
Demetrius' thoughts wandered anxiously down a well-trodden path. It was over a month since he had been nearly trapped in the lair of the Etruscan; forty days, to be precise. Demetrius wondered if he had got away with it. If the men hammering at the door had been policemen sent by the local eirenarch Corvus or, worse, imperial frumentarii, they would have tracked him down by now — if the old man had talked. Demetrius had not been back. Surely the magician would not have confessed to the treasonous question? But even now he might be in prison, cunning torturers probing him as his aged body lay tormented on the rack. Demetrius felt sick with fear. The terrible risks he had run. And what had he learned? P-E-R-F-I… Perfidia. But whose treachery would bring down the emperor Valerian? A traitor at court? The natural perfidy of easterners such as Shapur? Demetrius had risked so much, to find out so little. Sometimes he disgusted himself.
A chorus of disapproval swelled up from the stands. It was led by a group on the far side of the arena. 'Bears! We want bears! Cruel, cruel bears!' The rhythmic chants and clapping indicated that they were one of the theatre factions. They and the rest of the crowd had reason to be disappointed. It was lunchtime. The morning's venationes had been very uninspiring. A few deer and wild asses had been hunted, and a couple of bulls had fought. The only fanged animals despatched had been three mangy-looking leopards. There had been little fight in them. They had come from no further than the nearby province of Cilicia. Some ostriches were the only animals to have been transported from overseas. Even though they had stood stock still, as if drugged, the bow-armed bestiarii had managed to miss them several times.
So far, the lunchtime executions had been no better. Ballista had taken over the running of the show himself. Yet he had done nothing but stage a watered-down version of what Flavius Damianus had organized back in September. The same wild boar, bull and lion had reappeared, each quickly killing a Christian of no consequence. The mad cow had not been seen. It was Saturnalia. The crowd expected better. There was a bitter north wind. They were not happy.
Demetrius looked at the back of his kyrios. Ballista's shoulders were set in a mulish hunch. Over the last few days, Demetrius had realized that he was not the only one in the familia that was preoccupied. Ballista, Calgacus, even Maximus, each in his different way had seemed under strain. The young Greek suspected that the three barbarians were keeping something from him. If he had not been so wrapped in fear and self-loathing, he would have been more hurt.
A squad of gladiators escorted Aulus Valerius Festus into the ring. He was not shackled and there was no placard around his neck. A herald stepped forward and announced him. The equestrian atheist would die by the sword, as befitted his rank.
Like surf beating on the shore, the crowd thundered their disapproval: 'Nail him up!', 'Burn him!', 'Bring out the bears!', 'Make the bastard dance!' Cushions, pieces of fruit, half-eaten sausages were thrown into the arena. Before the first projectiles landed on the sand, as if on cue, Ballista summoned the herald back to his side. He spoke briefly, so low that Demetrius could not hear him over the din.
The herald stepped to the front rail. He held up his arms. The missiles ceased. Apart from the odd whistle and yell, the crowd quietened.
'Silence,' boomed the herald, 'that is what the vicarius wants: Silence!'
For a few heartbeats, there was indeed silence, a shocked silence as the crowd digested the insufferable arrogance of this barbarian vicarius. How dare the northern bastard ignore their wishes? Was it not Saturnalia, when all is permitted? Who did he think he was to deny their pleasures? Was he the emperor? Would they take this, even from an emperor? Fuck him!
The thunderous clamour rang out again. More missiles flew. This time, they were sharp and hard: stones, coins, things that could hurt, even kill. They were hurled into the arena at the Christian. Some in the crowd began to turn their aim on the magistrate's box. A rock whipped past Demetrius' ear. The secretary gazed at the back of his kyrios. Ballista sat immobile.
On the far side of the sand, the theatre faction that had been chanting for bears was pushing forward. The foremost of them were climbing the wall, dropping down into the ring, scuffling with the attendants. A figure with an outsize pileus, the cap of freedom, pulled low down, almost over his face, balanced on the wall, waving them on. Near at hand, around the Saturnalian king with the blackened face, a fight had broken out. Still the kyrios did nothing. Missiles were landing around him. The scribe Demetrius liked, the one from North Africa, was doubled up in pain. Send in the troops, Demetrius silently begged. At least have the bucinator blow a threatening note on his instrument. Still Ballista did nothing.
Without an order, the auxiliary archers in the magistrate's box closed rank around the vicarius and his party. Missiles rattled off their small shields, helmets and armour. Down on the sand, the gladiators were hauling the Christian out of the ring. He was bleeding freely from a head wound. Fighting was becoming general. The situation was slipping out of control. It was turning into a full-scale riot.
Suddenly, Ballista stood up. He turned and said it was time to leave. He swept past Demetrius. The young G
reek could not understand it. He was sure he saw the big northerner briefly grin, as if he were perfectly happy with the way things had worked out. The old man was sitting by the side of the mountain track. He was waiting. In his hand was a roll of papyrus. Oh no, thought Ballista, not even out here.
It was three days since Ballista had posted the notice suspending executions of Christians as a threat to public order. Four days since the riot in the stadium. He had ridden out that morning with the eirenarch Corvus, just to get out of the palace, as much for some peace and companionship as for the hunting.
They had left the Magnesian Gate at dawn. Two mounted huntsmen in embroidered coats with four Celtic hounds on long leashes had followed them. They had turned south and followed paths up Mount Prion in the general direction of the sanctuary of Ortygia. It was a beautiful midwinter day, hardly a cloud in the sky, and the cold, hard sunshine illuminated every bare branch and rock. In the morning the hounds had coursed a couple of hares, but they had got away. They had stopped for lunch and lit a fire. That was when the boar had emerged from the thicket. It regarded them with keen malevolence in its small eyes, then turned and made off, its short legs jerking out fore and aft. The hounds were slipped. All four men threw themselves into the saddle. The fire was well made, and it was winter. It would not spread. The boar gave them a good chase, scrambling fast up and down the slopes, its trotters kicking out showers of stones, before going to ground in a thick tangle of dead undergrowth. No sooner had the hounds gone in than the boar charged. The men were still swinging down from their mounts, unslinging their spears. The beast made straight for Corvus. There was no time, nothing Ballista or the huntsmen could do. At the last moment, the eirenarch levelled the blade. The impact drove him back two or three steps. The boar impaled itself ever deeper as its fury drove it, snapping up the shaft. When it reached the crossbar, with a foot and a half of steel inside it, the beast died. There was a drop of blood like a tear in each of its eyes.
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