With a loud yell Ballista feinted forward. Automatically, the warriors facing him gave ground. Again Ballista backed away. Now there were big streamers of fire lifting up from the boat. Ballista turned and ran.
When he reached the water, Ballista swung round, braced for an attack. There was none. One of the Borani was climbing the side of the ship, the other racing back to bring help. The stern of the longship was burning fiercely. Only the gods could save it now.
Ballista waded out. When the water reached his middle, he gripped the sword in his teeth and struck out from the shore. After a time he took the sword in his left hand and swam one-handed, slowly moving west, parallel to the southern shore of the island.
The moon shone on the water. In front of him, Ballista could see the promontory which jutted out, making the end of the bay. At its extremity was a humped rock. The outline reminded him of the silhouette of a whale. He floated on his back. To his right, Pigeon Island was in uproar. The longship was burning bright. Men were rushing down the path towards it. Ballista wondered if the Borani chasing Maximus had given up. He could not see any torches moving west. What had happened to that sodding Hibernian? Without further thought, Ballista swam back towards the island.
It was rocky where he came ashore. Again gripping the sword in his teeth, he hauled himself over great slabs of stone, then clambered through a belt of rough grass and shrubs, feeling sharp thorns scratching his exposed flesh. When he reached the wooded slopes, he stopped a little way in and calmed himself. The trees here were quite widely spaced — palms, firs, wild olives — with little undergrowth. Bars of moonlight shone between the black trunks. There was a great deal of shouting from out of sight at the eastern end of the island; near at hand, nothing but the breeze moving quietly through the foliage.
Walking on the balls of his feet, feeling for twigs and dry leaves as his weight came down, he moved up towards the big campfire on the summit. Every few paces, he stopped and listened and sniffed the air. Moving silently through a forest at night was second nature to him. Following the custom of Germania, as a youth he had gone to learn his warcraft with his uncle's tribe. His mother's brother was one of the leading warriors of the Harii. Their fame as nightfighters spread even into the imperium of the Romans.
Ballista had not gone far when he smelled something: a faint odour of fish and tar. He waited, immobile. Soon enough, a ghostly, dark figure appeared, slipping from the shade of one tree to another. Ballista let the apparition pass him, then called softly, 'Muirtagh of the Long Road, you are out late.'
Maximus whirled in a fighting crouch. His blade glittered in the moonlight. 'Ballista, is that you?'
'And who else on this island knows your original name and speaks your native tongue?' Grinning, Ballista stepped out and hugged his friend.
As they crept upwards, almost at the summit, a new series of sounds came to their ears from below: the ring of steel, the disjointed shouts of men in combat. The galleys had arrived. Men were fighting and dying down on the beach.
The big campfire was not quite deserted. In one corner of the firelight, a woman was sobbing. In her arms, she held her daughter. Her young son crouched behind her. When the two naked, blackened men stepped out into the light, all three shrank away and began to wail. Ballista put his finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence. They continued to wail, a thin, keening sound. Ballista walked over. The girl's clothes were torn. There was blood on her thighs. He spoke to the mother in Greek. 'There is nothing to fear from us, Mother, we have come to kill them.' The girl continued to cry. The others stopped. The boy was about ten. Ballista hoped that nothing very bad had happened to him. Ballista spoke to the boy. 'You must know the woods of your island well. Take your mother and sister to your best place to hide. It will be over soon. When you hear men talking Greek or Latin, come out.' The boy nodded seriously. With that, Ballista and Maximus turned and went towards the sound of the fighting.
From the tree line, the scene down on the beach was spread out as if at a theatre. The burning longship illuminated it as if it were day. Ballista and Maximus could see every detail. At the bottom of the bare, rocky slope, the Borani stood in a ragged shieldwall of about thirty men. Facing them across twenty paces of beach was a line of about double that number of Roman auxiliaries. More were wading to join them from the two beached galleys. A score or more bodies lay on the sand. Borani or Roman, it was hard to tell. One corpse can look much like another on a battlefield.
Ballista gestured for Maximus to follow, and they jogged back towards the summit. When they reached the big campfire, the family had gone. There was a sudden noise. Both men spun round. Corvus, the fisherman and the auxiliary from the boat stepped out into the light.
'Corvus, you bastard. You nearly made us die of fright.' Ballista laughed. 'What on earth are you doing here?'
'The old fisherman could not stand the waiting. Needs to know what has happened to his family. We anchored the boat just off to the north. Swam ashore. Thought we would see what was going on.'
Ballista turned to the fisherman. 'Your son has taken your wife and daughter to his favourite hiding place.'
'I know where he will have gone. Thank the gods they are alive. Are they…'
Before he could put his fears in words, Ballista told him to go. When he had left, Ballista told the others to each take a burning brand from the fire and follow him.
Alone, Ballista stepped clear of the trees. Down the slope, the Borani were about thirty paces below him. They had their backs to him. The Romans facing him saw him first. Soldiers pointed. Then one or two of the Borani looked over their shoulders and saw the unearthly figure up on the rocks. Then more and more looked up at the naked, blackened man with a torch in one hand and a blade in the other. Shouts of consternation came up from the barbarians. The shieldwall began to waver. Ballista gestured with his torch and, at well-spaced intervals, Maximus, Corvus and the soldier stepped out of cover. Ballista called a command over his shoulder: 'Troops halt!'
The Borani shieldwall was in confusion. Warriors pushed and jostled. None knew which way to face. Ballista called over their heads to the Roman auxiliaries on the water's edge. 'Are you ready for war?'
A full-throated roar came back. 'Ready!'
Three times the question. At the third answer they surged forward. Ballista turned and yelled, 'Charge!' to his imaginary troops in the trees. Screaming at the top of their voices, he and the other three set off down the rocks.
The one thing all troops fear above all else is to be surrounded. The Borani broke. Throwing away weapons, shields, anything that might hinder their flight, they streamed away up and down the beach. The battle was over. Now all that remained was a night of the wildest hunting of all — the hunting of men.
XVIII
In the extreme north-east of the city of Ephesus, hard by the Koressian Gate, across the street from the Gymnasium of Vedius or, as it was often called, the Gymnasium in the Koressos district, was the stadium. It was not what it had been. The old Greek running track had been altered after the coming of Rome. Its eastern end had been rebuilt. Stone walls and seats had been constructed, circumscribing a circle — a killing circle.
Ballista sat in the box reserved for the presiding magistrate and his entourage, but his thoughts were miles away, back down on the beach at Pigeon Island a month ago, revisiting the fierce exultation of victory, the almost sexual thrill of violence overcome, the heightened awareness of being alive. There had been much to do: getting the auxiliaries in hand, organizing a sweep of the island, putting some of the men back in the galleys — one to intercept Borani trying to swim to the mainland, the other to protect the village of Phygela from any barbarians who made it across. He had been dog-tired, but even the muttering ministrations when Calgacus appeared from out of the ships and started to tend his cuts had not dampened his spirits.
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 tim
e 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.
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