By the time I realized what they were about it was too late to make my excuses and leave. Besides, Crescentius would never have permitted it- this was the Praetor’s prime entertainment for the afternoon and none of his household would be seen slipping away before the grand climax. So I waited with the others as the Praetor’s men prepared the open courtyard for the event. While the celebration itself was held in the villa’s beautiful atrium, the demonstration required a great deal of space.

The girl at the center of the festivities seemed less than pleased. For young Tacita this was no small event being her fourteenth birthday and the prelude to her upcoming wedding, yet she sat sullen at her mother’s side, draping her hand across her face, attempting to hide the crooked line of her once straight and very Roman nose. I understood her unhappiness, but I had to wonder what she thought of her father’s gift to her. Was a broken nose worth the price about to be paid?

I gravitated towards the archway opening onto the yard, pausing from time to time to exchange pleasantries with my master’s many friends and acquaintances. These gatherings were as much about politics as they were about celebration and Crescentius had warned me to be on my absolute best behavior, for nothing could sully a man’s reputation amongst his betters like a recalcitrant slave. Still, I was seen as nothing more than a plaything even if I was well-spoken so nobody kept me for too long.

I stepped out into the hot mid-august sun and regarded the cloth-draped figure standing in the center of the courtyard. It was large, but not terribly so- perhaps half again the height of a normal man, perhaps twelve feet long and five wide with what I assumed to be the back end hanging lower than the front. Given its rough shape and dimensions I had a fair idea of what it was and my curiosity shamed me, for I knew its purpose this day.

“Now keep back there,” one of the men called to me, “We don’t want anyone spoiling the master’s surprise today.”

I looked at him and I could see a certain grim resignation in his eyes. His accent was Greek, his hair dark and curly and he might have been handsome once, but he was missing the tip of his nose and one eye. Tacita’s father had a reputation as an exacting master.

“Oh, I won’t be making any such mischief,” I said, smiling at him as he hurried over to usher me back inside, then I switched from Latin to Greek and added, “There’s no point to giving them any excuses, is there? Perillos’s monster will see enough death this day.”

He paused a moment and a knowing look passed between us, then he sighed as he gestured me back towards the archway.

“Get yourself back where you belong, lady. I’ve got no desire to be part of the show.”

NOTE: what follows may be disturbing.

When the time came the crowd seemed almost eager as we gathered around the courtyard and our host took his seat on a raised dais fronting the open space- he actually used an ornate chair, lending a somewhat officious atmosphere to the moment. His wife and children were arrayed about him on either side, with young Tacita seated to the left of her mother. He spoke to one of his retainers and then raised his arms, gesturing for the crowd to quiet down. As he did so I saw the slaves of the house being led out to bear witness to what would occur- they were sullen, but knew better than do anything more than to stand and watch.

Next came the condemned. There were four of them: a man, a woman, and two young children. All of them were naked. The children, a girl of perhaps five years age, and a boy of about nine, had their hands bound behind their backs. The adults, obviously man and wife, were more heavily encumbered, their arms bound to poles stretched across their shoulders, and their feet shackled together. The man was gagged and looked to have been beaten repeatedly. The woman… her face was a mass of bruises, an almost shapeless wound and she staggered on legs streaked black and red from burns. They were forced to kneel before the dais.

Our host rose to his feet and began to speak. I wish I could recall his words for I am certain they would be of interest to those who study the oratory of the Romans, but my attention was focused on the woman. I already knew the story being put forward; that she had squabbled with Tacita over some petty thing and had dared to strike the girl, breaking her nose and marring her for life, but as I watched her I could see beyond her shocked resignation, her fear for her children: beneath those things there was a hard and angry core of resentment. It surprised me for these people were not unused to the capricious cruelties of their station in life.

I hazarded a glance at Tacita. She seemed almost ill, her face ashen even as she struggled to maintain her dignity. She would not look at the woman, her eyes skipping over her, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze. Already the picture was forming in my mind and it was clear there was so much more to this story, but it was immaterial now.

The crowd gave up a cry and I realized the cover had been drawn off the figure standing at the center of the courtyard. Before us stood an enormous figure of a mighty bull, its head raised as if in a bellow of rage. Its skin was polished bronze that seemed to glow in the sunlight falling through the trees surrounding the courtyard, throwing the details of the beast into high relief. The sculptor had been meticulous and I suspected it was likely the work of the nose-less Greek I had encountered earlier.

Two men came forward and took the bound man, heaving him to his feet by the iron bar across his shoulders. Our host gestured to the bull and the men dragged him to its side, then reached under the belly of the statue and drew open a door in its side. One man held it open as the other released the bound man from his chains. The prisoner tried to rise to his feet but the man with him spoke quietly and he ceased his struggle. None could hear those words, but I saw the man’s mouth as he spoke.

“Die bravely,” he said, “it is the only hope for mercy.”

Our host was still talking, his words washing over me unheard as the two men locked the man inside the bronze statue, then dragged over a low, wheeled iron cart loaded with neatly stacked firewood. They positioned it beneath the belly of the statue and as the breeze shifted I could smell the oil soaking the wood. Around me the crowd seemed rapt in anticipation of the next moment, waiting almost impatiently for the speaker to finish while the gathered slaves maintained their cowed silence. Finally the oratory came to an end and with an almost offhand gesture the order was given.

A torch was brought to the statue and laid to the oil-soaked pyre beneath it. The flames spread quickly, roaring up at first to envelope the statue, but then descending again as the oil quickly spent itself. There was the sound of movement, thumping against the insides of the statue, and then as the fire began to burn in earnest there was a sound, halting and almost inhuman as it wailed forth from the open mouth of the bull. It rose and fell, distorted and sometimes almost musical as the sound of thrashing within first increased, then stopped. The bull fell silent as smoke began to issue forth from its snout and mouth, the breeze carrying the scent of thick incense and burnt meat. Already the underbelly of the bull glowed with a dull red heat- it had taken the man less than ten minutes to die.

Across the courtyard the household slaves watched as an overseer walked back and forth, prodding any who turned their eyes from the sight, forcing them to watch. My eyes returned to the woman, her two children huddled to her side as she stared in mute witness to her husband’s death. The children cried, pleading with her, but bound as she was she could not even embrace them, so she whispered to them desperate words of comfort. They must have been so terribly bitter on her tongue.

The crowd had begun to stir and servants began refilling goblets of wine, circulating with sweet pastries and meats for the guests while the fire burned for nearly an hour. I could not long take my eyes from the woman kneeling with her children. I tried to read her, to understand what she must be thinking and feeling. How could she remain so calm knowing what was to come? Certainly such cruelties were commonplace, but in her there was a kind of calm strength that refused to despair.

The fire was drawn from beneath the statue and large buckets of water were tossed upon it to cool it such that it could be opened again. Two men used hoes and spades to drag the charred remnants of the man from inside, depositing them in a wooden box, and then dragging it over to where the woman and her horrified children knelt. More water was used to rinse out the insides of the bull and the crowd began turning its attention back to the scene, anticipating an encore.

Another cry went up as the two men tending the bull seized the two children, dragged them to the center of the courtyard and shoved them screaming through the open door. One man took the handle of a spade and began beating them back as they tried to scramble out of the belly of the beast while the other tried to close the door, being hampered by the children’s desperate attempts to escape. Even for the jaded guests it was a pitiful scene and I saw more than one person find an excuse to look away. I had no desire to witness this myself, but suddenly I felt my master’s hand firm upon my shoulder.

“Do not turn away, Anneva,” Crescentius whispered.

I steeled myself to it even as the kneeling woman finally cried out.

“Mercy!” she wept, turning to face the dais even as her guard thrust her down with his boot between her shoulder blades. Cold eyes regarded her from above.

“What mercy would you have from this house?’ our host growled, “What mercy could you think you deserve from this house?”

“Please, master! Let me be with them!”

His face impassive as stone he regarded her for long moments before finally speaking a single word: “No.”

In the courtyard the men had finally managed to force the door closed and secure it. Blood smeared the edges of the door and inside the sounds of screaming and pounding could clearly be heard, the door shaking as the boy was doubtless banging at it with his feet, desperate to force it open. The man guarding the mother took his foot from her back and cruelly yanked her up to her knees, turning her to face the spectacle as the iron cart, freshly loaded with fuel, was rolled into place beneath the statue. From inside the panicked screaming grew more shrill and desperate and some in the gathered crowd began to laugh, finding amusement in the scene.

As the torch was pressed to the pyre a cry of despair came from the slaves gathered on the far side of the courtyard and I watched as the overseer laid into two girls with a stick for daring to raise their voices. The flames roared up again, engulfing the bronze bull in an envelope of fire, but this time the conflagration quickly banked- they had used less oil, letting the fire take more time to build to a killing heat. There was some mechanism within the statue that served to distort the sounds coming from within, but I could clearly make out the voice of the little girl, crying out for her mother, begging for her.

My heart turned hot and sick as I watched the crowd, seeing their delight at this new spectacle, watching the mother forced to listen as her babies were put to death before her eyes.

“Tell me, Crescentius,” I asked, my voice low, “do you find this amusing?”

I felt him stiffen at my tone, his hand tightening on my shoulder, but then he relaxed and with a sigh replied, “No, Anneva. Not amusing. Simply necessary.”

My eyes returned to the woman as she shuddered and wept, the pitiful cries from the bull growing more desperate as the heat of the fire worked its way inside. The tiny pleading words became a moaning wail, one voice having fallen silent, only the little girl’s remaining. I could not prevent my mind from picturing the scene as she doubtless perched atop her brother, keeping him between her body and the killing heat of the belly of the bull. She lasted far too long, wailing and choking until the air grew too hot and the smoke too thick to breathe any longer. When she fell silent it was as if some great fist clutched about my heart was suddenly released and I realized I had been holding my breath as dizziness took me and I stumbled.

The smoke poured from the bull’s snout, filling the air again with that sickening odor. I had experienced such before, but somehow this was far worse. It was the crowd and their casual acceptance of events, the almost festive way they embraced the spectacle. It should not have affected me so; I was accustomed to the casual cruelty of the Romans, but somehow this was uniquely intolerable. I looked to the dais again, gazing upon the daughter’s face, seeing behind her carefully indifferent mask a hint of horror, and perhaps even guilt. A servant offered her wine and she took it in hands that clearly shook, drinking deeply as her own mother frowned disapprovingly.

They roasted the children for more than an hour. When the fire was drawn down and the bull cooled what they removed were little more than burnished bones and ash, all of it piled into the box with the father’s remains and then laid at the feet of the bound mother who now knelt quiet and motionless, awaiting her fate.

More wine and food circulated amongst the guests as the final act was prepared and I gave in to my weakness, seeking to dull the reality of the moment with wine. It was a pointless exercise, my attention being so tightly focused on the woman. Again she seemed almost eerily calm despite her pain and grief. It went beyond the acceptance of her impending death and spoke of something greater and more powerful, but what it was I had no idea.

She was lifted to her feet and dragged to the statue, and then her chains were removed, freeing her from the binding pole. As this went on her eyes wandered around the courtyard and I saw more than one of the gathered slaves meet her gaze. Her gaze swept over the guests and for a brief moment our eyes met, and in that meeting a world of understanding flowed between us. Without thinking I quietly mouthed the word ?courage’. Her head inclined at me and her right hand, now free to move, rose and made a simple gesture, almost imperceptible in its subtlety, but clearly very important to her, so I returned it. She seemed to straighten in response, if anything becoming even more calm and determined. The men shoved her towards the bull and she willingly dropped down to crawl inside, offering not the slightest resistance.

“She’s broken,” Crescentius sighed, “she’s not even trying to resist.”

“She’s far from broken,” I whispered. “She has such courage as few ever possess.”

He looked at me oddly, but said no more as the statue was sealed up and a fresh pyre was set beneath it. Inside I knew she was simply waiting, determined to suffer this fate, perhaps hoping her own pain might somehow ease the agonies her little ones felt when they were torn from her side. There were many things I suspected, but of one thing I was certain: she felt no fear.

The torch was put to the pyre and the crowd waited in expectation of the woman’s screams, seeking to enjoy her agony as her punishment was so brutally meted out. Yet as the flames first roared to life then settled into a steady burn there came not a sound from the bronze statue. After all her suffering and horror this mother offered nothing but defiance to her Roman master. Her silence roared in my ears and I found myself strangely elated that I had been able even for a brief moment to meet her eyes and offer her what I could.

Cheated of their final entertainment the guests returned to their merriment, the birthday celebration proceeding apace while the household slaves were set to cleaning up the courtyard. My master and I remained until all the sacrifices were made and all the blessings bestowed, but I paid all that scant attention as I went over those brief moments when I had known this woman and shared what I could of her suffering. The gesture we had exchanged puzzled me and I promised myself I would learn its meaning, for it had lent that mortal woman a strength I could hardly comprehend.

It was the very first time I encountered the sign of the cross.

Posted on September 5th, 2005 by Zsallia
Filed under: The Past