Theodoric

invited their leader to become the Games’ organizer, a position which carried enormous prestige, but also normally enormous cost — however, in this instance it was being borne by the king as munerator or producer.

To Theoderic’s shocked amazement, a barrage of rude comments was hurled by the plebs at the patricians in the podium and privileged seats: ‘Hi, there, Spicy. What’s the Holy Father like in bed?’ ‘Antonia, is it true you’ve worn out three new boyfriends, and you old enough to be their grandmother?’ ‘Basilius, you old goat, that little slave-girl keeping you warm at night?’ The recipients of the taunts, though doubtless raging inside, made no response, for to do so would be a breach of dignitas.

A trumpet-blast announced the entry of the venatores or huntsmen, lean, muscled men, armed variously with spears, daggers, swords, nets, and bows. Animal-fighting alone survived of the arena’s blood sports: gladiatorial combats had been ended by Emperor Honorius ninety-six years previously, after a frenzied mob had torn to pieces a monk, Telemachus, for intervening in a fight; and a generation prior to that, Valentinian I had stopped the practice of condemned criminals, noxii, being savaged to death by wild beasts. Nevertheless, the venationes or wild-beast hunts still provided enough gore and excitement to whip the mob into a frenzy of blood-lust. After circling the arena to wild applause, the procession formed up before the royal box and saluted Theoderic and Probinus in turn, before departing.

A moment’s hush, then again the trumpet sounded, and a tide of wild animals began to pour into the arena. Until this moment, they had been kept in cages deep in the bowels of the amphitheatre; the cages were hauled by a system of lifts and pulleys to passageways leading to the arena, then opened.

Thrasamund, king of the Vandals, had done him proud, thought Theoderic, looking in wonder at the multicoloured mass of swarming animals: antelopes, jackals, hyenas, ostriches, leopards, lions, cheetahs, buffaloes, a rhinoceros, even several elephants. The marriage alliance he had forged with the Vandal widower (just one example of the good relations established with other barbarian leaders in the West) — sending him his widowed sister Amalafrida as prospective bride — had paid off handsomely. Thrasamund’s Berber and Moorish hunters had done a magnificent job; they must have penetrated deep into the continent’s interior to have been able to bring back such an astonishing variety of wildlife. Fights continually broke out among the animals, but the arena was so crowded that the contestants were swept apart as the stampeding throng frantically sought for means of escape.

At a signal from Probinus, the trumpet sounded and the venatores rushed into the arena through the openings the animals had used. The air filled with brays, roars and bellows as the huntsmen set to work, despatching their quarry with incredible speed and skill, some leaping from back to back delivering fatal thrusts in motion, or loosing volleys of arrows, each shaft finding its mark. The mighty elephants were among the easiest to slaughter — killed instantly by a chisel hammered between the cervical vertebrae, or hamstrung to immobilize them, then their trunks slashed off when they quickly bled to death. When at last the crowd of animals began to thin out, the trumpet sounded for the end of the hunt. The venatores now made way for the bestiarii, animal-handlers. These, armed with lead-tipped flails and blazing torches, drove the surviving beasts back into the passageways, whose gates had been opened, with basins of water placed inside to attract the exhausted animals. When the carcasses had been dragged out through the Door of Death, and with the arena once more empty, the crowd hushed in anticipation of the next show. Word had got around that this was to be something special. .

A team of slaves carrying a long stake hurried to the middle of the arena. Some scraped away the covering of sand to reveal the planking beneath, a section of which was removed, disclosing a hole into which the stake was fitted. Two more slaves led out a struggling young woman and chained her by the waist to the stake. A huge, heavily muscled man was then conducted to the spot, and released. Shaking his mane of red hair, he glared defiantly around at the vast audience.

Probinus moved his curule seat to be directly behind Theoderic. ‘The woman’s a murderess,’ he murmured. ‘Stabbed her master when he tried to rape her. The man’s a Celt, a runaway slave from the sulphur mines. When he was recaptured he disabled three men so badly that they’ll never work again. It should be interesting to see how long he can protect her against the assault of wild beasts.’

‘Damnata ad bestias!’ exclaimed the king. ‘But that’s unlawful, surely?’

Probinus shrugged. ‘Technically, perhaps, Your Majesty. However. .’

He was interrupted by the trumpet’s brazen clang. Into the arena walked a huge white bull with massive forequarters and long, wickedly pointed horns. The creature’s skin slid and rippled like silk above its muscles as it moved. This was Europe’s great wild ox, which the Romans called Urus and the Germans Aurochs, noted for its implacable ferocity when roused.

A gasp of excited admiration arose as the great beast trotted round the arena, establishing its territory. Spotting the woman and the huge Celt, he turned to face them and began to paw the sand. Immediately, the woman started shrieking and struggling — her cries and frantic movements providing the very stimulus to trigger an attack. With shocking suddenness the aurochs launched itself towards her.

Gripping the arms of his curule seat, Theoderic leant forward in an agony of suspense, willing the Celt to try to save the woman. But surely it could only be a doomed attempt. An unarmed man, no matter how powerful, could be no match for an enraged bull. As the ton of white destruction hurtled towards its victim, the Celt ran forward to meet it and grabbed its horns by their tips. At first he was borne along helplessly by the creature’s impetus. Gradually, however, his churning feet found purchase on the sand, until, yards from the stake, he managed to bring the monster to a halt. Legs braced like tree-trunks, biceps bulging with titanic effort, he strained to twist the creature’s horns.

A roar of incredulous delight burst from the spectators. Almost imperceptibly, the great bull’s head was beginning to turn. The movement gradually accelerated — now the neck was sharply angled to the body; an agonized bellow, a loud crack! like a snapping branch, and the animal slumped to the sand.

For a moment the audience was silent, then it broke into wild, sustained applause.

‘They await your decision, Majesty,’ prompted Probinus.

Startled, Theoderic collected himself. From his readings of Roman history, he knew the correct response. Rising to his feet, he extended his right fist. To ecstatic cheering from the crowd, he raised the thumb. Turning to Probinus he commanded, ‘Have him brought to me.’

‘You are a brave man,’ declared Theoderic, his voice warm with admiration, when the Celt — chest heaving as he fought for air, body dripping sweat — stood below the royal box. ‘What is your name?’

‘I am Conall Cearnach, a Scot from Dalriada in Caledonia. But my forebears came from Hibernia; that’s the island-’

‘-to the west of Britannia,’ finished Theoderic with a smile. ‘I am not entirely ignorant of geography, you see. The Scots are a brave and loyal race, I’ve heard. My bodyguard could use such men. What would you say to joining them?’

‘Anything is better than the sulphur mines.’

‘Have this man taken to the palace,’ Theoderic told Probinus, ‘with instructions that he be fed, allowed to wash, then clothed.’

‘The man is still a slave, Your Majesty,’ objected the senator. ‘A slave, moreover, who has inflicted grave injury on several men.’

Fury filled Theoderic. About to roar a reprimand to the editor, he remembered — just in time — to check himself. Dignitas. ‘See to it,’ he snapped.

‘Very well, Majesty.’

A growing impatient buzz alerted the king to the fact that the crowd was growing restive. Looking up, he was amazed to see the woman still secured to the stake.

‘Why has she not been freed?’ he demanded. ‘I raised my thumb.’

‘Surely, Majesty, your gesture indicated that mercy be shown to the man alone,’ Probinus pointed out.

Again, rage threatened to overwhelm the king. Was he to be balked at every turn by this arrogant aristocrat? With a huge effort, he controlled his anger. ‘Free her,’ he ordered, forcing himself to speak evenly.

Seated to his right, Symmachus turned to speak. The great senator’s face was furrowed in concern and sympathy. ‘Serenity, would that be wise?’ he cautioned. ‘Your instinct is a noble one; it does you great credit. But to