King of Kings

by Unknown

  ‘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

  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 wi
th 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 Greek 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.

  They ate lunch. Then Ballista and Corvus watched the huntsmen remove the tusks, skin the beast and butcher the meat. Time was passing, and they had set off back. That was when they came across the old man.

  Petitioners were the bane of anyone with power in the imperium. They cropped up wherever you went. You were expected to give them a hearing. There was a story that the emperor Hadrian had been out riding one day when an old woman approached him with a petition. Hadrian said he was too busy. She called out after him, ‘Then stop being emperor.’ Dutifully, he turned back and gave her a hearing. Ballista preferred the story of Mark Antony. Bothered by several petitioners under similar circumstances, he turned and held out the folds of his toga to catch their petitions. Then he walked to the nearest bridge and threw them all in the river.

  Indicating for the huntsmen to carry on, Ballista and Corvus reined in. The old man got stiffly to his feet. From under his broad-brimmed hat, he mumbled in up-country Greek that he wished to speak to the kyrios alone. Both Ballista and Corvus looked all around, scanning the hillside. When they were sure the old man was alone, the eirenarch walked his horse on.

  The aged petitioner did not speak immediately. He waited until Corvus was well out of earshot. Then he tipped back his hat. He was not nearly as old as Ballista had thought; he was actually quite a young man. He smiled and spoke quietly in good Latin. ‘Ave, Marcus Clodius Ballista. My dominus the ab Admissionibus Cledonius sends his greetings. He requests that if you must write to him about political matters, you do so only in the most oblique way and that, in future, you only send a letter by the most reliable of carriers. Macrianus has spies everywhere. If they do not intercept the letter, Censorinus’ frumentarii probably will. There are fears that the Comes Largitionum and the Princeps Peregrinorum are drawing ever closer. My dominus regrets that he thinks it would be unwise to talk to the emperor about transferring you to the eastern front and that it would be tantamount to suicide to try to denounce Macrianus. He begs that you try nothing of the sort. Valerian comes to trust and rely more and more on the lame one.’

  The man stopped. He looked along the road to where Corvus sat on his horse, waiting. ‘Here, you had better take this.’ He handed over the papyrus roll and turned to go. Ballista untied and unrolled it. It was blank. He looked after the man. The hillside was bare; the messenger had vanished. Ballista studied the slope carefully. There the man was, moving inconspicuously up a narrow gully. He was good at fieldcraft. But not that good.

  Alone in his room in the palace, the North African scribe began to write.

  To Lucius Calpurnius Piso Censorinus, Princeps Peregrinorum, Commander of the Frumentarii.

  Written at Ephesus, ten days before the ides of March, the anniversary of the accession of the divine emperors Marcus Antoninus and Lucius Verus, in the Consulship of Aemilianus and Bassus.

  Dominus, I write to inform you of the lamentable state of affairs in Ephesus.

  With regard to the schemes of Macrianus, rumours abound. But it is true that still no hard evidence has emerged.

  As for Marcus Clodius Ballista himself, I have informed you how at first he applied himself diligently to the apprehension and trial of the atheists, and how at the original executions he even went so far as to seize a bow from one of his guards and shoot three of the criminals dead with his own hand. Happily, this despicable demagoguery failed to bring him the popular acclaim he sought.

  Ballista ordered another round of executions to be held at the munera which marked the opening day of the Saturnalia. Organized by the vicarius himself, from the outset it was the poorest of spectacles. In the morning there were few beasts, next to none exotic. At lunchtime, only three Christians had been killed, in the most uninventive ways, when an atheist of equestrian rank called Aulus Valerius Festus was brought into the arena. The crowd democratically clamoured for this arch-criminal to suffer exemplary punishment. The answer Ballista gave via a herald was so haughty as to befit an emperor. When the first stones flew, he was at a loss, not knowing what to do. When a riot erupted, he fled the stadium, his face twitching with terror. The latter I can swear to; I was standing behind him and I saw him clearly as he passed. Back in the palace, sunk in a barbarian stupor, it was two hours before he ordered in the troops. By then the majority of the rioters had dispersed. Those that remained easily avoided the auxiliary archers, except for a handful too drunk to run. None of the ringleaders was apprehended.

  The next day, the vicarius posted an edict suspending the execution of Christians as a threat to public order. At the same time he sent reports to the emperor and to the Governor of Asia justifying this measure. Since then, he has discouraged any attempts to seek out more members of this revolting sect. He has postponed the trial of those already in custody. The persecution has come to a halt.

  There is no obvious explanation for the change in the attitude of Ballista. It goes without saying that northern barbarians are incapable of any consistency. One moment buoyed up with false pride and confidence, they think they can take on the world. The next they are sunk in the deepest despair an
d will attempt nothing.

  It is noteworthy that Ballista now shuns the zealous Flavius Damianus, instead heeding the dilatory local police chief, the eirenarch Corvus. There is a story that the latter was censured by the then governor some years ago for letting seven well-known young Christian men of Ephesus disappear as if the earth had swallowed them alive during the glorious persecution under the divine emperor Decius.

  It is on record that Ballista entered the prison just off the civic agora only accompanied by two of his slaves, and there he talked most amicably with some of the Christian prisoners. What they said is not known.

  For the last two months, Ballista has largely withdrawn from the sight of the public. He ventures out of the palace only to hunt – animals rather than atheists – or, in the fashion of Nero, he goes down to the docks dressed as a labourer to drink with common men in low bars, with only his bodyguard Maximus for company. Men of quality are seldom invited to his table, and likewise it is most infrequent that he dines in the houses of the well born.

  It is my sad duty to report that Ballista is neglecting, indeed has failed in the sacred mission entrusted to him by our most noble emperor Valerian. Dominus, if I may be so bold as to make a recommendation? Ballista must be removed from the office of vicarius.

  Dominus, you write that over the years my reports on Marcus Clodius Ballista have blown hot and cold – I can only repeat rather than try to rival the appositeness of your allusion to the divine poetry of Homer: indeed, sometimes I have praised him as the blind poet did Diomedes and sometimes execrated him as Thersites was in the Iliad. In answer I would remind you of what I said when you were gracious enough to grant me an interview in Antioch before this mission. Consistency must take second place to truthfulness. My loyalty to you and to the emperors means that I must always seek to inform you correctly, even if at times I appear to change my song.

  As the ink dried, the frumentarius known as Hannibal read the letter over. Unthinkingly, he rubbed his ribcage, where the rock had hit him during the riot. It might be he had again slightly overdone the northern barbarian references but, overall, he was happy with it. Suggesting a course of action was a risk. Frumentarii were merely meant to report. But Censorinus was said to be a man who rewarded initiative. Had not the Princeps Peregrinorum himself once been a humble frumentarius? The right words at the right moment could lift a man high.