before announcing that it was blue, and that it was a good omen. Ballista, Calgacus and Maximus exchanged a smile. Although all three men followed the Whites, they knew that the boy supported the Blues. It was no accident that the litter was light blue.
The family were handed in and the litter was lifted on to the broad shoulders of its eight bearers. Maximus sent a couple of burly porters with big sticks in front to clear a passage. He adjusted the sword on his left hip and the dagger on his right. Maximus took his station by Ballista's side of the litter, Calgacus by Julia's. The bodyguard looked round to check that all was well, and gave the signal to move off.
Under the eaves of the wine shop, the vagrant stirred. He picked up the coins and scratched the scar on his right hand as he watched the litter set off. After a few moments he stood up and followed.
The passage of the litter from house to hippodrome was not quick. The notoriously independent-minded hoi polloi of Antioch were never keen to show due deference to rank or station. They were remarkably reluctant to move aside, even for big men with big sticks. As the litter passed they called out jibes, some funny, many innovative in their obscenity. The family, Calgacus and the bearers feigned deafness. Maximus shot glowering glances from side to side. Once, Ballista leant out and laid a restraining hand on the Hibernian bodyguard's arm when a pleb was about to pay the price for having the temerity to barge up against the litter. The Antiochene crowd was always volatile. It never took much to spark a street fight, or even a riot.
At length the litter was set down outside the southern end of the hippodrome, reasonably close to the gate in the tall, left-hand tower. Maximus and Calgacus helped the family out, then the body servant fussed with the cumbersome swags and drapes of Ballista's heavy ceremonial toga. The bearers kept the worst of the crush away until they reached the gate. Only those with tickets were allowed further. The three members of the family, Maximus and Calgacus went on. In the high, vaulted passageway under the west stand, the press of bodies grew worse. Elbows everywhere, it was impossible not to be jostled. Maximus swung Isangrim up on his shoulder. Julia walked in the comparative shelter between the three men.
Eventually, they came to the stairwells that led up to the seating reserved for senators and equestrians. They passed by the first set of steps, one of those that zigzagged up the back of the building to the very top of the stands. They stopped at the next flight, a straight, broad sweep of stairs that led through the heart of the stand to emerge halfway up, at the bottom of the bank of seating reserved for the social elite. Maximus gently set Isangrim on his feet between his parents. Again, Calgacus straightened Ballista's toga. With a jerk of his thumb, Maximus indicated the next arch, which was the entrance to a passageway which ran at ground level to the very front of the stands – he and Calgacus would not be all that far away, just there in the poor people's seats if they were needed.
Maximus stood still for a few moments. Calgacus waited. Maximus watched the family climb the steps – the small boy flanked by his tall father and mother, each holding one of his hands. Maximus could not understand the fidelity his friend had for this woman. He himself would never want to lead such a life of domesticity. But he knew that he would die before he let harm come to any one of the three.
The assassin watched, as Maximus and Calgacus turned and walked away. Having given them long enough to clear the passageway, he followed them into the section of ground-level seats.
The massed ranks of senatorial and equestrian togas shone in the morning sunshine – a bank of dazzling white with broad and narrow purple stripes. The arena was still crowded, but the threatening crush was gone. Ballista found their seats with reasonable ease. As the holder of the corona muralis, his seat and those of his family had been reserved. They settled themselves within the thin grooves on the stone bench that marked the extremities of their three spaces. Ballista called over a boy and rented some cushions and bought a racecard, some drinks, and a sweet confectionary for Isangrim. From somewhere within the folds of her stola, Julia produced a toy chariot for Isangrim – in the colours of the Blues.
They were only just in time. A thunderous blast of trumpets, and the gates of the monumental arch in the northern, rounded end of the hippodrome opened. As always, Victory led the procession. She seemed to hover over her chariot on wide-spread wings. A great, rolling cheer from the whole audience greeted her. The ivory images of the gods that followed were applauded by their particular devotees: Neptune by sailors, Mars by soldiers, Apollo and Artemis by soothsayers and hunters, Minerva by craftsmen, Bacchus and Ceres by drunks and countryfolk in town for the day. Venus and Cupid were cheered by all – who could be so dull as to deny ever being touched by any aspect, physical or otherwise, of love? The applause rose to a crescendo as a gilded chariot brought in the Tyche, Fortune, of Antioch.
The cheers fell away as the images of the gods made their way down the track to their appointed places on the spina, the central barrier. The monumental gate stood empty.
Another loud blast of trumpets, and priests of the imperial cult appeared, carrying the small altar on which burned the sacred fire of the emperor. The crowd rose to its feet. Perfume and rose petals floated down from dispensers high up in the awnings. With stately deliberation, the imperial chariot entered the circus. Hail Caesar! Hail Imperator Publius Licinius Valerianus! The chariot was golden and encrusted with jewels. It was drawn by four snowy-white horses, their trappings purple and gold. Hail Valerian, Germanicus Maximus, Pater Patriae, Restitutor Orbis. The emperor stood motionless in the chariot, a laurel wreath on his head. He looked neither left nor right. He was as remote yet also as immanent and powerful as the gods that had proceeded him.
The crowd roared. Hail the theos, the god Valerian.
Ballista was on his feet with the rest. Like all the other military men, and a good many more besides, he was saluting. He looked down at the isolated man in the ornate chariot. The emperor was wearing the red boots and purple toga of a triumphator. Unlike during a Triumph, there was no one in the chariot with him, no slave to whisper in his ear, Remember you are but mortal.
Ballista's lips mouthed the rhythmic chants of welcome, but his mind was far away. Caligula, Nero, Domitian – no wonder so many of the emperors had been corrupted by it all. Commodus, Caracalla, Heliogabalus… the list went on and on. No one had accused the elderly Italian senator Valerian of any great vices except a certain meanness since his elevation to the throne of the Caesars. But he had not told the truth when he had ordered Ballista to Arete: that there never had been any hope of a relief army. The old emperor was a callous liar, and disturbing rumours of vice floated back from the banks of the Danube and Rhine of the behaviour of his son and co-emperor Gallienus. Ballista carried on mouthing the welcoming chants. As everyone said, Pray for good emperors, but serve what you get.
The imperial chariot reached the winning post and stopped. Grooms rushed forward to hold the horses. Valerian dismounted. Servants opened a gate in the wall of the track and, moving slowly, the emperor climbed the broad steps to the pulvinar, the royal box.
The strange, low hum of thousands of conversations resumed as the emperor was settled on a throne at the front of the pulvinar. The racecard largely forgotten in his hand, Ballista gazed up to his left at Valerian. Flunkeys were plumping up cushions, arranging rugs, setting food and drink near to hand. Already, several secretaries were in attendance. And there also were Successianus, the Praetorian Prefect, Cledonius, the ab Admissionibus, and Macrianus, the Comes Sacrarum Largitionum et Praefectus Annonae.
Ballista studied the royal box. Open on three sides except for some Corinthian columns, the pulvinar gave an impression of accessibility. The emperor could be seen by all eighty thousand of his subjects gathered in the hippodrome. The games – the theatre, the amphitheatre and, above all, the circus, or hippodrome as the Greeks called it – really were the only occasions when the emperor appeared available to large numbers of his subjects. On these occasions, the emperor was expected to attend. His subjects might shout out requests. The emperor was expected to listen. Yet, as Ballista studied the pulvinar – raised above and cut off from the stands by cross walls, a double rank of praetorian guardsmen keeping watch at the back – he thought such interaction counted for little. Having spent half of his lifetime in the imperium had taught the northerner that, in an autocracy, real power lay in physical proximity to the autocrat; it lay up in the pulvinar with the officials such as Successianus, Cledonius and the lame Macrianus, or even with the flunkeys placing the finger bowls or holding the imperial chamber pot.
'Pappa, Pappa, the first race is about to start, and I don't even know who is running.' Isangrim was tugging at his father's toga.
The boy was right. The crowd was whistling and, far off to the right in the stewards' box over the starting stalls at the southern, flat end of the hippodrome, the lots were being drawn. A groan went up from the crowd – obviously the team of some favoured charioteer had been allotted a bad stall.
With a smile at Julia, Ballista opened the racecard and studied it with his son. The first race was a team event for four-horse chariots. Two teams from the Blues and two from the Greens would run. The first-string charioteer
