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 disapprovaclass="underline" '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 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.'