Not that he could ever become high priest, of course. The priests can only come from the tribe of Levi and the high priest is chosen by the Roman prefect — generally on the basis of a considerable bribe — from among those few aristocratic Sadducee families who claim to trace their lineage to Aaron. Though Saul has confident hopes for a link by marriage to Annas’s daughter, he still would not be eligible for the priestly class. But there are many alter native roles in the upper echelons of Jerusalem’s rule for which Saul considers himself eminently well qualified.
The other guard captains summoned do not hold themselves with Saul’s bearing, he notes not for the first time. One of them sucks at a locust-green plant stalk, as Annas gives his orders. None of them have shown much attention to their appearance. Temple Guards are obliged to supply their own uniform: short grey tunics, which do not show the dirt and the blood. Most have secured something passable as cheaply as possible. Saul has spent all he could afford to make his own stand out: it is made from a well-woven cloth and has a simple black pattern sewn around the hems of its short sleeves. He even bought a leather breastplate, though he could not afford one with a back section; the absence leaves him feeling curiously far more vulnerable from behind than he ever felt before he acquired the armour. Now he is ill at ease when anyone stands to his rear, as if all of Jerusalem hopes to slide in a blade like a Sicarii — the nationalist assassins, named for the cacheable curved daggers they favour. All the guard captains are Jews, but most, like Saul, are from the diaspora. They speak Aramaic with varying degrees of accomplishment, but often break into street Greek when they are together. None has acquired Hebrew learning, as Saul has, though coming to Hebrew late in life made its study arduous even for him.
So many of the guards are from Greek-founded cities because most Judaeans prefer not to enforce the will of the governing class, seen as repressing their own people, as being in cahoots with the Romans. The simpletons cannot see that they are in fact being protected from the Romans, that Jerusalem can only retain some right to rule herself if she is seen to do as Rome wants.
Saul has been called a collaborator and a traitor, a stooge and worse, out in the city. Now he carries a short, dark-wood club — of the type fullers use to pound the wool — to deal with those insults, and alongside it, a sword, reserved for more serious challenges. It’s a good sword: Roman. Found, so the seller said, after the razing of Tzippori. Perhaps it has cut the throats of Israelite rebels in its time, but now it serves in the hand of Saul. Serves in the high and holy name of Annas, Kayafa and the priesthood. This is a noble calling. Saul should feel no shame for abandoning his Pharisee scholarship.
Eight Years before the Crucifixion
The gladiators move towards the centre of the arena, with stilted, unnatural steps. Each holds a gladius — the short sword favoured by the Romans — but has no shield. Their feet are bare. The hot sand of the arena is perhaps the last sensation of touch they will ever know, except the blade of the other. They are clothed only in loincloths and simple armour: each of their sword arms is protected by lizard scales of beaten iron — otherwise injury might end the contest too speedily — and each man wears a large helm with a sweeping brim and a face covering. The helms are scarred from former blows. These gladiators are not among the first to wear them. Many men have already died in them. The gladiators most certainly know this. Perhaps they weep. Only they know if tears fall, because the helms they wear have no eye-holes. But probably they don’t. Probably they wept last night. Probably they barely slept last night. But now there is just this. Now they can only do what they can do, even if that is only to die. They are damnati: criminals condemned to death in the arena. And they are andabatae, who fight blind, for the viewing pleasure of the Roman crowd, who love such hilarities.
The band strikes up; the enormous hydraulic organ booms its buoyant notes, joined by the caw of long brass stork-leg trumpets and a drum that beats the rhythm as if on a galley ship. Blah-ta-dada-blah, and two men edge towards each other. They swing blades in front of them as they come, like inept reapers. Sightless in the sunlight.
Those spectators in the good seats have canopies above them to create shade. Slaves sprinkle water on the plebeian mob, to ease the heat a little. All paid for as part of the sponsored spectacle. A man called Pilate of the Pontii Equestrian Order is the editor; he has organized all this, paid for all this. It is said he seeks office. Of course he seeks office. You don’t near bankrupt yourself in such ostentation for love of the common man.
Pilate isn’t in his conspicuous, elevated seat at the moment. He’s probably gone to urinate or something — it will be a long day. These andabatae are just programme-fillers anyway. No one comes to the circus to see this crap, but they make the crowd laugh. Who wouldn’t laugh to see two blindfolded men slashing their way nervously towards each other? Tilting their helmed heads when they think they hear their opponent. Walking flatfooted, so as not to risk slipping, like old folk on ice.
They made the damnati piss before they entered the arena. It’s cleaner that way. More dignified. Men either take the punishment bravely, or they don’t. But all men take it. Previously they may have had choices in life. But now there is just this.
To some it may seem strange that they don’t pull off their blinding helms and run, or try to fight their way free. But it is not only resignation that prevents them. There is some pride to be salvaged in dying correctly; there is a right way and a wrong way to do this. One of them may even walk out alive from the sands after the fight today. Not to freedom, but to a temporary respite. A chance to die in another arena another day. There are no prisons in the Roman world, there are only gaols. Imprisonment is not a punishment: it is the waiting period before the trial or before the sentence is carried out.
One of the damnati it disoriented now. In his flailings with his sword he has finished facing the wrong way entirely and is setting off towards the place he started, still slashing in front of him. Many in the crowd are in tears of laughter at this. But, then, who could fail to be amused by such a sight: a man condemned to die, bewildered like that.
One of the arena guards prods the andabatae until he is facing something approximating the correct direction once again. The guard is dressed as Charon, the ferryman of the underworld, visored with a mask of iron set in an implacable expression, covered with a black cloak, which must be exhausting in this heat — but his is still an enviable role among those who must set foot on the sands. He carries a staff, one end finished with a steel spike. It is this he uses to goad the andabatae when they stray too far apart. Sometimes they fling wild slashes at him, but they cannot reach the end of the goad. It is futile to fight the goad. Though arguably it is equally futile not to. The result will likely be the same. The other end of Charon’s staff is tipped with a hammer. This he uses to crush the skulls of the fallen, if so directed by the crowd and the editor of the games, who today is a man called Pontius Pilate.