The Christians were herded out again, except for one, the wild-eyed young man who had shouted that he was a Christian and that he wanted to die. His hands were tied together, a chain played out from his bonds. A gladiator on either side of him, he stood, swaying. He was speaking, but his words did not carry. Most likely he was praying.
One of the cages was opened, and four gladiators emerged, manhandling a wild boar. The beast was furious, its coat bristling, its wicked tusks flashing this way and that. The end of the Christian's chain was fixed to the boar's collar.
As the gladiators stepped back, the boar lunged. A tusk caught one of its tormentors, opening his thigh to the bone. As the blood poured forth and the gladiator's companions dragged him away, the young Christian raised his eyes to the heavens and crowed with laughter. There was a threatening roar from the crowd.
Its immediate vengeance exacted, the boar stood still, its head turning from side to side, its piggy little eyes alive with malice. It looked at the Christian. The young man stared back, still praying. They were separated by about ten paces' length of chain.
Without warning, the boar turned and ran. The chain snapped tight. The young man was jerked off his feet. As the boar ran, it dragged the youth along, face down through the sand. The crowd laughed, shouted with delight.
Either the new noise or the weight on the chain made the boar stop. It turned. The youth got to his knees. The boar charged. The youth was smashed backwards. Blood sprayed into the air. The crowd hooted their approval. 'Salvum lotum, salvum lotum,' they yelled, the traditional Roman greeting at the baths: 'Well washed, well washed.' The boar stood over the ruined body of the young man.
The next execution frankly failed as entertainment. Again, a lone Christian was brought forth, another lay member of the cult. He was left unbound. Matched against him was a sleek black fighting bull with splendid, razor-sharp horns. The idea must have been that the unfettered Christian would provide a good comedy turn, that he would run and his doomed scampering about would delight the audience. The Christian did not run. The bull did not charge. It stood facing him.
After a time, a team of trained bullfighters had to be sent in. They pricked and goaded the animal, working him round the arena, trying to get his blood up. The bullfighters were skilful. They showed the grace of pantomime dancers, but this was not the right time. It was not what the crowd wanted to see. There was an ugly murmuring and one or two cushions and pieces of fruit were thrown.
Eventually, a bullfighter led the beast to charge the Christian. It tossed him, perfunctorily gored him, then trotted away. The Christian was still alive, groaning, making small, agonized movements. The bull was corralled. The attendants, dressed as deities of the underworld, started to drag the Christian away to the usual place of despatch, out of sight behind the stands. The crowd shouted their disapproval. 'No, no. Here and now. Blood on the sand.'
The audience was imploring Ballista as the presiding magistrate to intervene. Smothering a feeling of pity, Ballista indicated for the death blow to be administered at once. The crowd could turn very ugly at any moment – there was always the possibility that a volatile mob would riot – and what difference could it make to the poor bastard anyway, he thought.
The Christian was pulled up on to his knees. His head was wrenched back. A gladiator unsheathed his sword. It flashed in the sunlight. The gladiator steadied himself, took aim and plunged the sword down into the Christian's exposed throat. The blow was not good. The blade struck bone. The Christian screamed. Hastily, the gladiator withdrew the sword and struck again. The Christian died. The gladiator's arms and chest were slick with blood. The audience hooted derisively as he walked to the gate.
'A pity,' said Flavius Damianus, 'but the rest of the spectacle will restore their good humour.' He was eating a chicken leg. All around, people were tucking into their picnics or food bought from vendors. There was a plate of food by Ballista's elbow. He took a swig of watered wine. He had no appetite.
The music had stopped. A deep, coughing roar from the cages told Ballista what would come next. The rank smell of the beast caught in the back of his throat. He had faced a lion once. Faced it and killed it. But he had been armed with a stout spear. He had not just been brutally whipped. And he had had no time to dwell on what was to come, no time to become really frightened.
The Christian was a third layman. Ballista assumed that Flavius Damianus was saving the priests for the finale. The Christian had to be beaten to get him to move out into the circle. The gladiators left. The gates were shut. The Christian turned this way and that, hopelessly.
The door of the cage slid open. The lion padded out. He was an elderly male, enormous but shabby, blind in one eye, slightly lame in one front paw. His great nostrils sniffed the air. They caught the scent of blood. His one good eye focused on the Christian. Something like recognition seemed to pass across the beast's face.
With no preliminaries, the lion accelerated. The Christian screamed, a thin, desperate wail. Threebounds, and the lion gathered itself and sprang. The Christian turned to flee. It was far too late.
The lion used its bulk to knock the man to the ground. Its widespread front paws with their long claws pinned the Christian down. With a feline delicacy, the lion tore out the man's throat.
The beast raised its bloody muzzle and roared a great roar. Truly it was the king of beasts. The crowd yelled their recognition of its majesty.
As the lion was recaptured and the remains of the Christian removed, Flavius Damianus spoke. 'See' – he had to raise his voice to be heard – 'now they are happy again. The next will be something special, something fitting.'
Ballista felt an unease in the pit of his stomach as one of the ministrae was led forth. She was quite young and, despite her ordeal, she was still attractive. She looked bewildered. Her tunic hung in rags off her back. The crowd whistled, called out obscenities.
A bellowing and frantic pounding of hooves came from the last of the cages. The door was opened, and a maddened heifer burst into the arena. It ran in circles, butting at thin air.
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
