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 focused 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 u
nwittingly gave me the opportunities to eavesdrop.
Ballista continues to be puzzled and deeply concerned as to why Macrianus, 'that devious lame bastard,' as he customarily refers to him, should have supported if not engineered his appointment to persecute the Christians in Ephesus. The northerner and his familia have no answer, but they are convinced that is a part of some deep plot on the part of Macrianus. Similarly, the familia are convinced that Macrianus has been in clandestine communication with the leading magistrate in Ephesus, the scribe to the Demos, Flavius Damianus, but for what nefarious reason they do not know.
Today, one of the Christians executed, one Appian, son of Aristides of Miletus, uttered terrible words against our sacred emperor, including the treasonous prediction that the noble Valerian had but forty-two months to live. The atheist did not say who or what would kill our noble emperor, but three rumours run round Ephesus: the perpetrator will be Shapur the Sassanid, a high-placed Roman, or, which cannot be true, the gods themselves. Appian went on to claim that the emperor had been led into impiety, namely the persecution of the Christians and the performing of human sacrifice on newborn babies, by none other than Macrianus.
To turn to the actions of Ballista himself. Since he arrived in Ephesus, he has carried out his duties quite commendably overall.
In the area of public security, he has performed outstandingly. When, a month ago, a boatload of Borani pirates were reported to be hiding on a small island south of Ephesus, he took prompt and decisive action. Thirty-two were killed and twelve enslaved and sold in the agora. While it is thought a few may have escaped to the mainland, it is most likely that these have subsequently been hunted down by the locals. The operation was carried out at the cost of just four auxiliaries dead and five wounded.
As far as the persecution of the Christians goes, Ballista has applied himself reasonably diligently, if with some seeming reluctance, until today. To celebrate the birthday of Great Artemis, Flavius Damianus had organized a splendid spectacle. Yet as it came to its climax, the burning alive of three notorious Christians, Ballista seized a bow from one of his guards and shot the criminals dead with his own hand. This extraordinary act cannot be interpreted other than as a shameless attempt to win favour with the mob. That would do. Hannibal sealed the letter with his frumentarius seal: MILES ARCANUS. By next morning it would be on its way to Censorinus' office in the imperial palace at Antioch, winging its way along the cursus publicus at some fifty miles a day.
There was no moon, but the silver coins glinted in the starlight as they were counted out. There were a lot of them. There needed to be.
'It is enough.' The centurion did not try to keep the contempt out of his voice. 'Wait here. I heard something over by the Gymnasium of Vedius. I will take my boys to investigate. Half an hour — if you are still here when we return, you will not leave.'
The twelve men waited, crouched in the darkness under the wall of the stadium. There should have been fifteen of them, but three had lost their nerve. Torchlight flared out from the gate. The distinctive sounds of soldiers marching — the scrape of metal-studded boots, the jingle of equipment and ornaments — echoed in the still of the night. The contubernium of ten auxiliaries emerged and were led away by the centurion.
The men rose to their feet and picked up the full wineskins. They looked at each other, waiting for someone to take the lead. The priests were all taken, or fled into hiding. Eventually, one man started towards the gate, and the others followed.
The killing circle smelled of woodsmoke and burnt humanity. In the dim light, it seemed enormous, the sand stretching away. In the centre, the pyres shimmered silver; the air around them shivered.
It took courage for the first man to step out on to the open, exposed sand. The rest hurried after. When they had come within a few paces, they could feel the heat on their faces. They slung the wineskins down from their shoulders, fumbling with nerves as they opened them.
At first, they all crowded round the central pyre, each trying to pour the liquid that would cool the ash that hid the remains of the blessed martyr Appian. Harsh, even unchristian, words were hissed. Three or four reluctantly moved to the other two pyres.
The hot ashes hissed, and steam rose up as the wine splashed down. Suddenly, a man leant forward and, ignoring the singeing hairs on his forearm, clasped the shrivelled left hand of Appian. Another man grabbed the martyr's right hand. Both men snapped at each other. Neither would let go. There was a tussle. Both men pulled. With a horrible wrenching sound, Appian's corpse came apart like an overcooked joint of meat. The men from the other pyres came running. Everyone wanted his own relic, and a vicious fight broke out.
XIX
It was snug and comfortable in the private study of the proconsul. The thick glass of the windows and a glowing brazier kept the autumnal air at bay. It was Ballista's favourite room in the palace. The windows looked south at the jagged crest of the mountain wall. There was a fine mosaic on the floor, orientated to be viewed from the window seat. In the lowest register, a couple of huntsmen set out with their dogs to hunt hares. Above them, a lion killed a deer and a panther leapt at a wild boar. In the middle, two well-equipped, mounted huntsmen were on the point of despatching a tiger. Towards the top, three men were outnumbered by four wild animals. Two of the beasts were wounded or dead, but one of the hunters had only a split second to shoot an arrow and save his companion from the ravening lion which was about to pounce on his back.
Ballista wondered if there was any sort of narrative or message here. Maybe, as one progressed through the mosaic, from near to far, things became ever more threatening. You set out on something that appears to be safe, but it turns out otherwise. It is a dangerous world out there. He turned back to the three letters spread on the desk.
Julia's had been delivered personally that morning by one of her endless cousins, who had been on his way back to Italy. Ballista read through it again. First, there was much news of Isangrim, his humour and strong will, above all the wonderful progress in his riding lessons. Then a little about her pregnancy: she was bigger than she had been the first time, moved like a beached whale. After the domestic, came the public news. To the east, the Sassanids had been active. A raiding force had appeared before Nisibis in north-east Mesopotamia. Their horsemen had ridden west to beneath the walls of Carrhae, before moving down the Chaboras to Circesium. They had enacted religious ceremonies there on the field of battle, before disappearing south. Out in the deep desert, other raiders had taken caravans bound for Palmyra. In Antioch, Julia had talked to Cledonius and his wife, her distant relative. Neither they nor anyone else could yet suggest a reason that Macrianus the Lame had wanted Ballista appointed to the persecution in Ephesus. But the influence the Comes Largitionum had over the emperor was ever growing. As always, Julia ended her letter with a simple sentence that she loved and missed him.
Ballista looked at his reply. First, the pregnancy: expressions of sympathy for her discomfort, prayers for a happy outcome. That was tactful, before moving on to fulsome praise of Isangrim and requests for ever more news. In response to her public information, he merely stated that he was carrying out his mandata in Ephesus and hoped he would be returned soon. He, too, ended with a simple statement that he loved and missed her.
Ballista knew that his wife understood Roman imperial politics better than he did. He had always relied on her insight. But there was a huge difference between accepting that a woman knew about politics and wanting her to become actively involved. When she was heavily pregnant, it was especially unthinkable. Ballista picked up the letter he had written to Cledonius.
After the usual expressions of politeness to the ab Admissionibus, Ballista launched straight into the persecution in Ephesus. Ballista was doing his duty. As his official reports to the emperor must have made clear, he was following his mandata. Although a Christian had betrayed him at Arete, it was a distasteful task, one for which he was unsuited — taking an Epicurean view, was it likely that the gods re
ally cared what these humble, misguided atheists believed? He had heard that the Sassanids were raiding in Mesopotamia. A man of his background would be of far more use there. Would Cledonius petition the emperor for Ballista to be reassigned to a military post on the eastern frontier? And there was another thing that the ab Admissionibus should raise with Valerian. On the point of death, one of the Christians had denounced the malign and ever-increasing influence which Macrianus wielded over the emperor. Letters to Ballista from Antioch confirmed this. Neither Macrianus the Lame nor his sons were to be trusted. Cledonius should warn Valerian — or should Ballista write directly to the emperor himself? Whichever Cledonius thought best; Ballista would do nothing until he had his advice.
Ballista sealed the two letters. He called for Calgacus.
'Never a moment's peace, for fuck's sake.' The Caledonian actually did not look in the least put out. 'What now?'
'Are Demetrius or Maximus about?'
'No, the Greek boy is out and the Hibernian is' — a horrible leer crept over Calgacus' face — 'entertaining a friend.'
'Allfather, it would not do to interrupt that,' Ballista said, deadpan. 'Send a boy down to the docks with these. Tell him to find a ship heading for Seleuceia in Pieria and pay the captain to make sure they are delivered in Antioch.'
With only a minor string of muttered complaints, Calgacus left. Once he had gone, Ballista picked up one of the confiscated writings. And the beast was given a mouth, uttering haughty and blasphemous words, and it was allowed to exercise authority for forty-two months; it opened its mouth to utter blasphemies against God, blaspheming his name and his dwelling, that is, those who dwell in heaven. Also it was allowed to make war on the saints and to conquer them. Religion, thought Demetrius, is dangerous. Like strong drink, wild music, the juice of the poppy, it makes people do strange things. He knew what he was going to do. He knew he should not — apart from its sordid nature, it was illegal. It was very, very dangerous. Yet something irrational was making him do it.
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