King of Kings

by Unknown

  A blare of trumpets brought Ballista back to the present. He shifted in his seat. Apart from a couple of trips to relieve himself, he had been sitting there all morning. The morning had been fine. Ballista had nothing against wild beast hunts – although it did strike him as ironic that Greeks and Romans sneered at Persians for the supposed effeminacy of hunting in enclosed parks, the famous paradises, when the nearest most inhabitants of the imperium came to hunting was to sit in complete safety, in seats made comfortable by cushions, to watch professional huntsmen kill animals in very much smaller enclosures. Still, it was true there was a certain amount of skill and courage on display.

  The afternoon would be fine as well. Ballista knew that Romans argued that watching gladiators in mortal combat instilled moral fibre in the viewers. If slaves and outcasts did not flinch when close to the steel, how much more was expected of free men should Roman citizens be called to fight? With the way the imperium was going, the latter was no longer such a remote possibility.

  It was neither the morning nor the afternoon that troubled Ballista, but the lunchtime entertainment.

  There was another blare of trumpets. Then the water organ struck up a deep marching tune. The music swirled round the stadium, a rousing march. The gates swung back and the religious procession entered, a statue of Artemis of the Ephesians at its head. It was 28 September, four days before the kalends of October, the sixthday of the month of Thargelion in the local calendar – the birthday of Great Artemis. Flavius Damianus, who had asked Ballista for the privilege of organizing the ceremonies, could not think of a better day to kill atheists publicly in inventive ways.

  The statue of Artemis took her place, flanked by other deities, including past and present members of the imperial family, in a box opposite Ballista. The priests and ephebes, the upper-class young men of Ephesus, filed up to their places in the stands. With heavy rumbling and sharp squeals of wood, in were wheeled the cages containing the beasts. From one of them came a low, throaty roar which raised the hair on Ballista’s neck.

  The music stopped and there was an expectant hush. All eyes were trained on the gates. An auxiliary archer stood at Ballista’s right hand. The northerner looked around him, at Flavius Damianus. The scribe to the Demos was leaning forward eagerly in his seat, his face rapt. Ballista wondered if Flavius Damianus had always been so fervent in his worship of the traditional gods, or if the intransigence of the Christian atheists had caused it; if fanaticism called forth an equal and opposed fanaticism.

  The music welled up again, and a line of seven prisoners was driven into the stadium. They were dressed in simple tunics, and barefoot. There was a placard around the neck of each. The first read, ‘This is Appian the Christian.’ Ballista looked at the man. The Christian’s protuberant eyes flicked here and there. He was trembling. Ballista noticed that Appian’s mouth was opening and closing. So were those of the others. It took Ballista a few moments to realize that they were chanting or singing. Their song was drowned by the music.

  Flavius Damianus leant over and said, ‘I thought it best there should only be seven. We need enough for other festivals, and having too many executions at once spoils the spectacle, dulls the senses.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Ballista made a noise that could be taken as affirmative.

  The Christians were nearing the gladiators. Now they would have to run the line. The thick, knotted leather whip swung and hit Appian hard across the shoulders. It sliced through his tunic. He staggered forward. The next whip struck. Appian fell to his knees. The following Christian moved to help him but was felled by the first gladiator. Appian struggled to his feet. The third gladiator plied his whip. There were ten gladiators. By the time Appian reached the end his tunic hung in shreds. His back was a bloody mess. Ballista saw with disgust that the final Christian was one of the slave woman ministrae.

  The Christians were herded out again, except for one, the wild-eyed young man who had shouted that he was a Christian and that he wanted to die. His hands were tied together, a chain played out from his bonds. A gladiator on either side of him, he stood, swaying. He was speaking, but his words did not carry. Most likely he was praying.

  One of the cages was opened, and four gladiators emerged, manhandling a wild boar. The beast was furious, its coat bristling, its wicked tusks flashing this way and that. The end of the Christian’s chain was fixed to the boar’s collar.

  As the gladiators stepped back, the boar lunged. A tusk caught one of its tormentors, opening his thigh to the bone. As the blood poured forth and the gladiator’s companions dragged him away, the young Christian raised his eyes to the heavens and crowed with laughter. There was a threatening roar from the crowd.

  Its immediate vengeance exacted, the boar stood still, its head turning from side to side, its piggy little eyes alive with malice. It looked at the Christian. The young man stared back, still praying. They were separated by about ten paces’ length of chain.

  Without warning, the boar turned and ran. The chain snapped tight. The young man was jerked off his feet. As the boar ran, it dragged the youth along, face down through the sand. The crowd laughed, shouted with delight.

  Either the new noise or the weight on the chain made the boar stop. It turned. The youth got to his knees. The boar charged. The youth was smashed backwards. Blood sprayed into the air. The crowd hooted their approval. ‘Salvum lotum, salvum lotum,’ they yelled, the traditional Roman greeting at the baths: ‘Well washed, well washed.’ The boar stood over the ruined body of the young man.

  The next execution frankly failed as entertainment. Again, a lone Christian was brought forth, another lay member of the cult. He was left unbound. Matched against him was a sleek black fighting bull with splendid, razor-sharp horns. The idea must have been that the unfettered Christian would provide a good comedy turn, that he would run and his doomed scampering about would delight the audience. The Christian did not run. The bull did not charge. It stood facing him.

  After a time, a team of trained bullfighters had to be sent in. They pricked and goaded the animal, working him round the arena, trying to get his blood up. The bullfighters were skilful. They showed the grace of pantomime dancers, but this was not the right time. It was not what the crowd wanted to see. There was an ugly murmuring and one or two cushions and pieces of fruit were thrown.

  Eventually, a bullfighter led the beast to charge the Christian. It tossed him, perfunctorily gored him, then trotted away. The Christian was still alive, groaning, making small, agonized movements. The bull was corralled. The attendants, dressed as deities of the underworld, started to drag the Christian away to the usual place of despatch, out of sight behind the stands. The crowd shouted their disapproval. ‘No, no. Here and now. Blood on the sand.’

  The audience was imploring Ballista as the presiding magistrate to intervene. Smothering a feeling of pity, Ballista indicated for the death blow to be administered at once. The crowd could turn very ugly at any moment – there was always the possibility that a volatile mob would riot – and what difference could it make to the poor bastard anyway, he thought.

  The Christian was pulled up on to his knees. His head was wrenched back. A gladiator unsheathed his sword. It flashed in the sunlight. The gladiator steadied himself, took aim and plunged the sword down into the Christian’s exposed throat. The blow was not good. The blade struck bone. The Christian screamed. Hastily, the gladiator withdrew the sword and struck again. The Christian died. The gladiator’s arms and chest were slick with blood. The audience hooted derisively as he walked to the gate.

  ‘A pity,’ said Flavius Damianus, ‘but the rest of the spectacle will restore their good humour.’ He was eating a chicken leg. All around, people were tucking into their picnics or food bought from vendors. There was a plate of food by Ballista’s elbow. He took a swig of watered wine. He had no appetite.

  The music had stopped. A deep, coughing roar from the cages told Ballista what would come next. The rank smell of the beast caught in the back of
his throat. He had faced a lion once. Faced it and killed it. But he had been armed with a stout spear. He had not just been brutally whipped. And he had had no time to dwell on what was to come, no time to become really frightened.

  The Christian was a third layman. Ballista assumed that Flavius Damianus was saving the priests for the finale. The Christian had to be beaten to get him to move out into the circle. The gladiators left. The gates were shut. The Christian turned this way and that, hopelessly.

  The door of the cage slid open. The lion padded out. He was an elderly male, enormous but shabby, blind in one eye, slightly lame in one front paw. His great nostrils sniffed the air. They caught the scent of blood. His one good eye focused on the Christian. Something like recognition seemed to pass across the beast’s face.

  With no preliminaries, the lion accelerated. The Christian screamed, a thin, desperate wail. Threebounds, and the lion gathered itself and sprang. The Christian turned to flee. It was far too late.

  The lion used its bulk to knock the man to the ground. Its widespread front paws with their long claws pinned the Christian down. With a feline delicacy, the lion tore out the man’s throat.

  The beast raised its bloody muzzle and roared a great roar. Truly it was the king of beasts. The crowd yelled their recognition of its majesty.

  As the lion was recaptured and the remains of the Christian removed, Flavius Damianus spoke. ‘See’ – he had to raise his voice to be heard – ‘now they are happy again. The next will be something special, something fitting.’

  Ballista felt an unease in the pit of his stomach as one of the ministrae was led forth. She was quite young and, despite her ordeal, she was still attractive. She looked bewildered. Her tunic hung in rags off her back. The crowd whistled, called out obscenities.

  A bellowing and frantic pounding of hooves came from the last of the cages. The door was opened, and a maddened heifer burst into the arena. It ran in circles, butting at thin air.

  The audience laughed. The auxiliary archer to Ballista’s right stood impassively at attention. Flavius Damianus leant round him to speak to Ballista. ‘They see the joke – one mad cow chasing another.’

  The slave girl ran towards the wall of the enclosure. The movement caught the attention of the animal. It thundered after her. The girl jinked to one side. Travelling too fast, the beast crashed into the wall with an impact that seemed to shake the entire stadium. The crowd bawled with delight. Ballista wanted to look away, but found he could not.

  The beast stood stunned. Then it shook its head and pursued her. The girl was not running freely. Ballista could see the marks of the whips on her back. He felt sick.

  The cow caught up with the girl. It lowered its head and butted. She fell on her back, her ripped tunic riding up to expose her thighs. Something in the animal’s addled thoughts sent it careering to the other side of the arena.

  The slave girl sat up painfully. Her hair had come loose and fell wildly over her shoulders. She looked around vacantly. Then, with strangely everyday gestures, she rearranged her tunic to cover her thighs and started to pin up her hair.

  Ballista was on his feet. He held up his right hand for silence. The eyes of everyone in the stadium were on him. He filled his lungs with air and, in a voice trained to carry on the field of battle, ordered the animal restrained and the girl led out through the Porta Sanavivaria, the Gate of Life.

  As Ballista sat down, the crowd bayed their disapproval. He saw Flavius Damianus suppress a look of fury.

  No sooner had the girl and cow been removed than the carpenters appeared. This was the finale, the bit Ballista had been especially dreading. As the hammering echoed around the stadium, he sat white-knuckled on his curule, lost in the darkest thoughts. All his adult life he had been haunted by the reek of burning flesh. Uncontrollably, the memories came back – Persians before the walls of Arete, Goths on the plains at Novae, his own men at the foot of the ladders at Aquileia. Again and again the ghastly, thick stench, the discoloured, peeling skin, the hideous sight of unnaturally exposed pink flesh.

  The hammering ceased. The three crosses reared up, stark and awful. At the last moment before entering the stadium, Ballista had issued a couple of orders. He had done what he could to ease the suffering. But it was going to be bad.

  The condemned were brought in. The presbyter, Appian, son of Aristides, walked quite normally. Behind him came another presbyter and a deacon. Unlike Appian, they were stumbling and staggering. One fell and had to be set on his feet by the other two.

  The Christians were led to the crosses. Ropes were produced and the men were tied to the wood. There was some muttering from the stands, a few catcalls. A voice called out, ‘What is wrong with nails?’ Ballista ignored a sharp look from Flavius Damianus.

  There was a breathing space as attendants piled kindling around the base of the crosses. Two of the condemned lolled in their bonds, mouths slack. Appian looked around him. His prominent eyes lighted on the divine statues.

  ‘The emperor Valerian,’ Appian shouted, ‘the theos, god, Valerian.’

  Everyone stopped. Everyone gazed at him. Even the men on the other two crosses seemed to raise their heads and regard him. Was he about to recant, about to acknowledge the divinity of the emperor? If so, he must be released. Ballista, much surprised at Appian’s composure, hoped he was.

  ‘Theos in name but not in nature,’ Appian yelled. ‘Valerian was given a mouth uttering boasts and blasphemy. He was given authority and forty-two months.’ There was a shocked silence. There was no way back now. This was treason. Even to inquire into the length of the emperor’s reign brought the death penalty. There could be no pardon from publicly predicting his death. Forty-two months. Three and a half years. Ballista did some rapid calculations. Valerian had been on the throne for five years. The Christian must mean that the emperor had forty-two months to live. Whatever, he would not be around to see if his prediction came true.

  Appian was not finished. He tipped his head back and addressed the heavens. ‘Behind Valerian, whispering in his ear like a teacher of evil, stands the magician, the cripple, the lame Macrianus – leading him on to perform devilish rites, loathsome tricks and unholy sacrifices, to cut the throats of wretched boys, use the children of distraught parents as sacrificial victims, to tear out the intestines of newborn babies, cutting and mincing God’s handiwork, as if these things would bring them happiness…’

  Ballista signalled Maximus to come close. ‘You got them to use ropes not nails, but why did that one not get the drugged wine?’

  ‘He would not drink it,’ whispered Maximus. ‘Some religious reason, said it was a Friday or something.’

  ‘A pity.’

  ‘Sure, it is for him.’

  Appian raved on. ‘I see plague, earthquakes, the Euphrates running with blood. I see the mighty of the imperium grovelling in the dust by the hooves of the barbarians’ horses.’

  Attendants put lit torches to the kindling. Some accelerant must have been used, as tongues of flame shot upwards immediately. One Christian was still comatose. The third opened his mouth in a silent scream.

  Above the sound of the fire Appian shouted. ‘I will burn now. You will all burn for eternity in hellfire.’

  Ballista forced himself to release the arms of his curule. His palms were wet with sweat, there were livid marks where he had gripped the ivory. He wiped his hands on his thighs. He had his mandata. He would do his duty. The Christians would be persecuted. But this, the burning, he could not stand.

  Smoke billowed into the stands. It carried the revolting sweet smell, so close to roasting pork. All three Christians were screaming now.

  Ballista stood up. The auxiliary archer was well disciplined. He betrayed no surprise when Ballista ordered him to hand over his bow. Ballista took three arrows from the soldier’s quiver. Carefully, he placed two of them on the parapet of the box. He notched the third and drew the bow.

  Closing his mind to the smell and the noise, Ballista focus
ed on the sinew, bone and wood in the belly of the bow. He aimed. He released.

  The arrow thumped into the Christian’s chest. Appian’s body arched, went into spasm, was still. Twice more Ballista notched an arrow, drew, aimed and released.

  All three Christians hung limp in their ropes. They had died quickly. The fires raged on, consuming their bodies. Maybe their souls now were seated at the right hand of their Christ. And maybe not.

  The north African frumentarius known as Hannibal stretched luxuriously. One of the better things about working for Ballista was the privacy. The barbarian always insisted on the smallest possible staff and the palace where they were lodged in Ephesus was designed for the entourage of a proconsul, so everyone, down to a humble scribe such as himself, had a room of their own. As soon as the spectacles at the stadium were over, he had hurried to his quarters, locked the door and set to work. Now it was done. He looked out of the window at the dark, moonless night. He flexed the fingers of his writing hand and reread the central part of the letter to his spymaster, Censorinus.

  I will attempt, Dominus, to answer all the questions in your last letter as fully and truthfully as I am able.

  With regard to the schemes of the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Anonnae Marcus Fulvius Macrianus, it is true that so far I have uncovered no hard evidence. However, there is much that raises disquiet.

  On three occasions I have managed to overhear private conversations between Marcus Clodius Ballista and members of his familia. It is worth noting that, as one might expect from a northern barbarian, Ballista never confides in any of his official staff or indeed in any free citizen. As you well know, he only opens his mind to his own sort, the two slaves from the barbarian north called Calgacus and Maximus. An exception to this circle of northerners is Ballista’s slave-secretary, a Greek boy called Demetrius. This slave is well educated, but obsessed with religion and the supernatural. I have feigned similar interests and, over time, in these last years have become familiar with him and I think to some degree to have won his trust. It was he who unwittingly gave me the opportunities to eavesdrop.