Harry Sidebottom - King of Kings

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, erecting 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.