King of Kings Read online

  The loud twang of the torsion-powered starting mechanism was followed a split second later by a hollow clang as the gates of the stalls crashed into the restraining Herms, the stone pillars with the bust of a man at the top and carefully sculpted male genitals at roughly the right height. The noise of the starting stalls always thrilled Ballista. It reminded him of the shooting of artillery.

  Trumpets rang out. Thousands of voices yelled, ‘They’re off,’ and the air was full of the smell of racing: hot horse, crowded humanity and cheap perfume.

  The teams shot like bolts from the stalls; the coats of the horses and the silks of the drivers gleaming, the dust puffing up behind them. It was touch and go as they reached the central barrier and all the way down the first straight. Three of the teams were going flat out for position. When they emerged from the first turn, Commius, the second driver of the Blues, was hugging the barrier in front. Diocles, the star of the Greens, tucked in behind him, the second driver for the Greens following. Musclosus was holding back the great-hearted grey Candidus and his team.

  ‘Candidus always likes to come from behind.’ Ballista smiled reassuringly at Isangrim. ‘Musclosus has driven him before. No need to worry – there are seven laps.’ What the northerner said was true. But he had not pointed out that it was also true that Diocles and his team always favoured lying second. So it went, for four laps; Commius, the pacemaker for the Blues, led them round, and each stayed in the same position.

  On the second straight of the fifth lap the pace got to the horses of Commius. They were weakening. Even from the stands, the Blues’ second string could be seen to falter. A feint from Diocles drew them away from the barrier. They did not have the energy remaining to pull back in quickly enough as the Greens’ star swept by on the inside. Around the next corner, they pulled wide, allowing both the other teams to overtake them.

  Going into the last lap, it seemed that nothing could stop a Green victory; Diocles was several lengths clear in front, and the Green second string was blocking Musclosus. Diocles was already performing his trademark waving to the crowd.

  At the penultimate turn, as the Green second string started to turn left, Musclosus made his move. Leaning right out over the yoke, plying the whip on their withers, he forced his horses on into what threatened to be a collision. It was at moments like this that the great-hearted grey, Candidus, proved his courage and his worth. His was the example that his Blue team followed. The Green team lost their nerve; shying away, they carried their chariot way out wide towards the stands.

  Diocles was waving to the crowd, performing tricks with his whip. He did not see Candidus coming up the barrier until the last moment. As the Blue team flashed alongside, Diocles savagely hauled his team over. His reins tied round his waist, he threw his whole body into the desperate attempt to close the gap. The very unexpectedness of the manoeuvre confused his team. The left-hand horse stumbled. It struck into the horse next to it. This horse lost its footing. In a moment the beautiful harmony of the four running horses, man and chariot went down in a tangle of splintered wood and shattered bones. Momentum carried the thrashing tangle along the sand. It left a smear of blood behind.

  Miraculously, out of the side of the chaos rolled a figure in ripped, dusty green. Something glittered in his hand. Arrogant bastard though many considered him, Diocles had not won over four hundred races and survived more crashes than he could remember without having his wits about him. Somehow, in the heart of the maelstrom, he had unsheathed his knife and cut the reins that were tied around his waist. He lay still for a moment, then raised himself on one elbow and waved the knife above his head. He sank back to the ground. The crowd roared.

  At least ten lengths in front, Musclosus took the last corner wide; no shaving the turning post with the wheel this time. Safely round, he called Candidus and his team for one last effort, all the time looking over first one shoulder then the other to make sure that no god had given wings to the hooves of the trailing Green second string. There was no divine intervention. The Blue team crossed the winning line. The crowd roared again.

  That was the high point of the day. From then on, it was all downhill.

  It was publicly given out that Valerian supported the Blues and his son Gallienus the Greens. The latter was true enough, but the former was widely recognized for what it was – a political statement, the attempt of an elderly, rather aloof emperor to appear a man of the people. By the second race, Valerian could be seen doing paperwork with his secretaries and Macrianus. The crowd did not like it. They strongly disapproved. They demanded that their emperors not only attend the spectacles but did so with evident enjoyment. Anything less was to show disrespect to the people, to disrespect their libertas. The plebs were very touchy when it came to their libertas, thought Ballista. And of what did their libertas consist? The liberty to shout such demands as Lower taxes! Cheaper corn! Free that gladiator! Put on more shows! Ballista had little but contempt for such ‘liberty’.

  After four races, not one using all twelve starting stalls, an ugly realization spread through the crowd. The limited numbers in the first race had not been to showcase the return of the legendary horse Candidus but evidence of the tight-fisted nature of the old emperor. Shouts and chants rang out, along the lines of an aged miser coaxing broken-down charioteers and horses out of retirement with a bowl of gruel.

  Even though the sixth race, the one before lunch, was a free-for-all featuring three teams from all four factions, it was then that things started to come to a head. Well before the break line, when such things became permissible, Teres of the Whites blatantly left his lane and pulled straight across the favourite, Scorpus, of the Reds. The crowd were on their feet, waving their togas and cloaks, yelling for a recall and restart. The emperor Valerian worked on, ignoring the pandemonium. The race degenerated into a farce, with over half the teams either pulled up or slowed down while a minority raced on. After seven laps, Thallus, the other driver for the Whites, crossed the line first, to derision and uproar.

  Valerian sent a herald to the front of the royal box. The herald raised his arm. The crowd fell silent. The herald read out the words of the emperor: ‘The race stands. Prandium. Time for the midday meal.’ The mob bayed.

  The lunchtime entertainment made things worse. Some acrobats erected two tall poles on the central barrier. A high wire was strung between them. The acrobats walked the wire and struck some attitudes. The crowd jeered and chanted: ‘Gladiators. We want gladiators. Blood on the sand.’

  Again the herald came forward. This time the imperial words were not listened to in silence. The herald persevered: ‘There will be blood on the sand next summer. The blood will be Persian. Your emperor needs all the money he can get for the coming war. Gladiators are expensive.’

  The message could not have hit a worse note. The crowd howled. A chant emerged in unison from thousands of mouths: ‘Everything available, everything expensive, cheap corn now!’ It was only too true that the presence of the imperial court and a field army in the city of Antioch had dramatically driven up the price of corn, the staple of life. The chant was taken up by more and more of the crowd.

  Ballista felt a stab of apprehension. This could quickly turn very ugly. He glanced up at the imperial box. While the emperor worked on, the praetorians at the back were shifting on their feet, hefting their shields tightly, checking their weapons. Ballista looked all around. There was a definite air of unease among the senators and equestrians. The stairs at the top of the stand were a long way away. The ones they had entered through at the bottom were much nearer. The noise from the crowd was increasing.

  Yet again the imperial herald appeared. He raised his arm. The chanting faltered and died into silence. ‘That is what he wants – silence,’ the herald said. There was a stunned silence, then the crowd erupted in fury. The first shower of stones dashed across the front of the imperial box. The crowd had become a mob, surging, baying for blood. The herald scuttled away. The praetorians rushed forward, er
ecting a testudo, tortoise, of shields around the emperor.

  Ballista knew it could only get worse. He had to act quickly. Already stones were flying up into the seating reserved for the elite. The heads of the first of the mob were appearing over the low dividing wall at the bottom. They were climbing over, intent on robbery, assault and rape. Senators, equestrians and their families were running up the steps, scrambling over the seats trying to get away, to reach the stairs at the top of the enclosure. Telling Julia to keep a close hold on their son, Ballista started to strip. He struggled out of his toga, wrapped its voluminous folds around his left arm and gripped his corona muralis in his left hand.

  ‘Follow me. Carry Isangrim. Keep close.’

  Julia started to edge backwards.

  ‘No, we go down.’ There was a momentary doubt in her dark eyes, but she made to follow him as he jumped to the step below. The steps were too deep for her to jump while carrying the boy. She had to sit down, swivel, swing her legs over, stand, step forward, then repeat the manoeuvre.

  There were ten seats down to the walkway then, some twenty paces to the right, was the entrance to the lower stairs by which they had arrived. They had only descended two steps when two of the mob reached them. They both had knives. The first lunged at Ballista. The northerner caught the knife in the folds of his makeshift shield. He twisted the man’s arm outward. With his right hand he lunged forward and gripped the man’s throat. He lifted him off his feet and threw him backwards. The man’s feet missed the step. He landed on the one below, lost his balance and tumbled backwards, screaming. He disappeared down the hard, unforgiving stone steps. Ballista rounded on the other man.

  ‘Want some?’

  Almost politely, the man said no and, giving them a wide berth, clambered away up the seats, looking for easier pickings.

  They climbed down another two seats. Their progress was painfully slow. To their right, the steps up across the face of the seating were choked with the mob. From above came a confused roar and high-pitched screams.

  ‘Follow me.’ Ballista moved to within a few paces of the mob on the steps. He stopped. He waved the corona muralis above his head. The mob stopped.

  ‘Solid gold. A king’s ransom,’ he called. ‘Who wants it?’ The mob stared, open-mouthed with avarice. Before they could move, Ballista drew back his arm and threw the golden crown in a high, long arc over their heads. In a second, the steps were empty.

  Ballista turned, scooped up his son and yelled for Julia to follow.

  They plunged down the steps. In moments they were on the walkway, the entrance to the exit just a few paces away.

  Ballista skidded to a halt. There was a man with a knife blocking his way. Julia ran into his back. ‘Behind us,’ she panted. Ballista turned. At the foot of the steps they had just left was another man with a knife. They were trapped.

  Ballista handed Isangrim back to Julia and pushed them both on to the seat behind him. He span round to face the track, watching the men out of the corner of each eye. Ballista adjusted the toga hanging from his left arm. His mind was calm, crystal clear, but it was racing, working out the possibilities and the angles.

  For a time they were all frozen like a statue group; the two men with knives facing in towards the unarmed barbarian at bay, his wife and child huddled behind him.

  ‘Wait,’ Ballista said loudly in Greek. Quickly, but with no sudden movements, he untied the purse from his belt. He tossed it in the air, letting it fall heavily into the palm of his right hand so the knifemen could hear the weight of the coins. Ballista addressed the man to his right, the one blocking their escape, ‘Take the money and let us pass.’ The man looked to the other knifeman, obviously the leader. Ballista half-turned.

  ‘Oh, we will, Kyrios, we will.’ The man on Ballista’s left grinned. His teeth were blackened and tangled. ‘Just leave the woman with us – it’s been a long time since we had an equestrian bitch.’

  Ballista’s arm was a blur as he threw the purse. The knifeman jerked back but could not avoid the missile, which smashed into his face with a sickening sound of breaking teeth and bones. Ballista swung round and launched himself at the man on his right. Enveloping the man’s weapon with the toga hanging from his left arm, Ballista dragged the blade out wide and punched the man hard in the face with his right. The man staggered back a pace or two, but did not go down. The knife came free. It glittered in the sun as the man raised it to strike. Desperately, Ballista caught the man’s wrist with his left hand. The man swung a punch with his left. Ballista blocked it with his right forearm and seized his assailant’s throat, squeezing hard.

  A noise behind him made Ballista glance over his shoulder. The other knifeman, his face a bloody mess, was moving forward, breaking into a run. Ballista started to swing the man he had by the throat around, to block the new threat. The man was struggling. He was too heavy. Ballista could not do it in time. His side and back were open to the knife.

  As the bloodied knifeman ran past, Julia tripped him. It was the lightest of taps, but it destroyed the man’s balance. Toppling forward, arms flailing, he ran a few more steps, then crashed on his face. The knife skittered out of his grasp as he slid on the hard, marble walkway. In an instant Ballista released the man he was holding, who crumpled, hands clutching his bruised throat. Ballista swivelled rapidly and threw himself on the man on the floor. His weight came down through his knees into the small of the man’s back. The breath wheezed out of him as if he were a broken wind instrument.

  On his hands and knees Ballista scrabbled after the knife. Its worn leather hilt was warm in his hand. He got to his feet. The tripped man tried to rise. Ballista stamped his left heel down on an outstretched hand. Putting all his weight on his left leg, he swivelled again. There was a terrible scream over the sound of splintering bones.

  The half-choked man was up again. Stepping carefully over the prone attacker, now curled into a foetal position and whimpering quietly, Ballista moved forward. He swung the knife from side to side. The other man’s eyes were as if mesmerized by the blade. He edged backwards past Julia and Isangrim.

  As the knifeman reached the foot of the steps down which Ballista and his family had come, a rioter clambered over the low dividing wall into the elite enclosure. Another two, then another three followed. In some inexplicable dynamic of the mob, a horde of men poured over the wall. The man with the knife was gone, swept away up the stand by its momentum.

  Ballista threw away the knife to scoop up his son. One arm clasping Isangrim secure to his chest, he took Julia in his other hand and ran to the head of the exit. There were the stairs, lit here and there by lamps in niches. In strange contrast to the crowded chaos of the seating enclosure, they were completely empty. The way to the safety of the corridor at the bottom was clear. Holding Isangrim gently, the boy’s blond curls against his shoulder, Ballista began to descend as fast as he could without risking a fall.

  They had gone some way when a change in the light warned him that something was wrong. He looked up. There, at the head of the stairs, blocking much of the daylight, he saw a man – or the hooded silhouette of a man. A weapon shone in his right hand. This was not a mundane knife to peel apples, this was a man-killing blade, an old-fashioned legionary short sword, a gladius.

  Ballista handed his son back to his wife.

  ‘Go.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘The boy…’ Ballista gestured. ‘Go now.’

  Julia turned to leave.

  Very deliberately, in a fighting crouch, on the balls of his feet, the man began to descend the stairs. Cursing himself for a fool for throwing away the knife, Ballista again rearranged the toga over his arm. He began to retreat down the stairs slowly, one careful step at a time.

  It was very quiet in the stairway. Ballista could hear Julia’s retreating steps, heavy with the weight of their son, the son he would not see again. The man was closing the distance quickly, taking two steps to every one backward of Ballista. The reckoning would b
e soon.

  Ballista could hear the oil fizzing in the lamps. Typical, he thought. In my barbarian northlands, the lights would be solid torches, useful weapons for burning a hall or ramming into a man’s face, and here civilization has given me delicate little pottery lamps. Still, the hot oil might have a use if he could surprise the man with it. He stopped by one of the niches where a lamp burned.

  The man was getting very close now. Ballista caught the glitter of his eyes under his hood. Ballista watched the blade of the gladius. The man moved like a fighter. There was a scar on the hand that gripped the blade. Julia’s footsteps were growing fainter. The hissing of the lamp seemed unnaturally loud. Ballista could hear his own breathing, harsh, laboured.

  The man was just three or four steps away. Watch the blade, watch the blade.

  Another sound broke into Ballista’s concentration. The sound of running feet. Boots pounding up the stairs behind him. Watch the blade. Ballista could not turn. His assailant flicked a glance over Ballista’s shoulder. The northerner saw recognition on the nondescript face under the hood. Without hesitation, the man turned and ran. In seconds he had reached the top of the stairs and, sheathing his sword, was gone.

  Moments later, Maximus reached Ballista.