Bang. Bang.
The judge signaled for silence. The clamor continued, and the commotion was enough to drive him mad. And, he thought, just wait until the media arrives.
Bangbangbangbangbangbang.
He rattled off a series of blows like the hammer of a machinegun, although of course, he had no idea what a machinegun was.
The crowd was silenced, but not because of the enthusiastic endeavors of the judge, but by the entrance of a shackled girl. She was a piteous sight, her skin wearing layers of dirt and a toga that had seen far better days, her eyes blackened and arms purpled by the cruel proposals of her jailer, her lips torn and bleeding from the harsh bread and acrid water. A cry of disapproval arose almost instantaneously from the medley crowd, boos interspersed with missiles composed of rotten vegetation, pelted at the jury and the court officials. The aging judge for once wished his dais was slightly higher, and further away from the savage bombardment of tomatoes, lettuce, and unidentifiable flying objects.
Of course, he had petitioned the emperor not once, not twice, but three times to close the courts to the res publica, all of which were gently refused. The court cases were good publicity, naturally, and the judge was politely told to deal with the tumultus himself.
I was there in that crowd, and I stood out, silent and still among the rabidly chanting mobs. It wasn't my intention to attract her attention, but somehow it felt as if I did. But she wouldn't have recognized me anyways.
The judge finally peeked his head out, hearing the din lessen as the underpaid guards cracked their spears on the backs of the unfortunate agricolae, who, inexperienced in Roman city-life, had taken a holiday in the cold season and arrived at the courthouse early for their eagerly awaited spectacle.
A young man was now standing next to the girl.
The judge glanced back down at the file: Polla Flavia, age 16. Quintus Caecilius Jucundus, age 27.
He glanced up again. Rarely were ever seen prisoners in this sort of condition. At least common criminals were only either beaten, raped, or unfed; these two were subjected to a combination of the three. The young man was constantly shifting in his chair and groaning from noticeable discomfort, having obviously been raped a fair bit. Hmm…I'll have to make some rearrangements with the staff. Put the gays in the women's prison at the south side, maybe. Or stick them in an office with some paperwork. With funding as low as it was, there was little chance of hiring different guards. The emperor had a habit of throwing lavish orgies, and of course, he selected to withdraw funds from the arm of government with the least ability to complain. Never mind that the cells had no latrines, and the food was excess pig slop sold at the farmer's market, the Emperor must have his whores from Babylon, Egypt and Gaul. Ugh. These heathen barbarians are going to be the downfall of Roman civilization one day. Together with corruption, overextension, political instability, and those strange Christians who tried to stop the gladiator games.
The judge looked down again. They must have fucked up something horrid to be given this kind of barbaric treatment. He read on. Ah yes. Offing a senator. That might do it. Sparsus…The name grabbed his attention. There was something so softly, suggestively familiar about it.
The prosecuting advocatus had arrived unnoticed several minutes earlier. The judge's eyes immediately darted to the copious and profligate hair that dominated his face. The hair, of course, had been grown purposely to conceal a face ravaged by syphilis. The consequential facial gummata had erased almost all distinguishable features, leaving him without lips, eyebrows, or nose, his face resembling a WWI battlefield, devoid of vegetation and punctured by numerous craters. The advocatus turned his head and returned the judge's stare. A redness rose in the judge's face, and he quickly averted his eyes and signaled the ianitores to shut the doors. A mustiness immediately began to manifest itself in the air, the stink of cheap lard mixed with expensive perfumes, of sulfur and bath-house sweat.
"Court is in session."