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 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
