Eight for Eternity

Chapter Eleven

As John approached the Hippodrome on his way back to the palace he pondered what to do next. Should he walk up the Mese to the Praetorium in case Urban Prefect Eudaemon had returned? Or should he, after all, risk revealing his investigation to the charioteer Porphyrius who might also be able to tell him who the dead men were?

The towering wall of the stadium which dominated this part of the city had been visible to him above the roof tops and through gaps in the buildings for a long time as he came down the side street. When he arrived at the Mese he saw people clustered near the Hippodrome’s entrance. There were a number of faction members, judging by the elaborate clothes and hair styles, but also a few young men who had the look of charioteers or soldiers, along with a handful of clerks.

John crossed the Mese to take a closer look. A ragged cheer ran through the small crowd.

He accosted a fellow whose tunic boasted enormous billowing sleeves with tight cuffs. “What is this gathering about?”

“We’re wagering on the races.”

“The race track is inside,” John said. “And I don’t see any horses.”

“There’s a wagering machine.” The man flapped a wing-like sleeve in the direction of a cart on which sat what at first glance looked like an elaborately carved plinth.

When John reached the cart he saw that the peculiar object was only a solid block on three sides, which were covered with bas reliefs depicting a race. A charioteer whipped his team around the turning posts and accepted a palm after his victory while a lady looked on from a window. The back of the device-or perhaps it was intended as the front, the thing being turned sideways on the cart-consisted of a complicated series of crisscrossing, descending ramps, punctuated by holes.

A man distinguished by a huge potbelly and a cloak striped with blue, green, white, and red, stood beside the machine, exhorting the spectators. “Who’ll be next to pit his skill against the demon driver Fortuna? Better than the races! All the thrills, none of the manure!”

A young fellow with the leg wrappings and muscular arms of a charioteer stepped up onto the back of the cart. He exchanged words with the hawker beside the machine, handed him a coin and received four balls colored blue, green, red, and white respectively. The colors of the traditional factions.

He grinned and raised his fist. Several men in front-friends no doubt-shouted encouragement. Then he dropped the balls into a hole at the top corner of the machine.

Sunlight flashed on them as they began to roll down the first of the inclined ramps. The green ball vanished into one hole, the white into another. The green emerged on a lower ramp. So did the red, which John had not been following. It was impossible to track the progression of the balls as they dropped, reappeared, traded places. The red ball shot out of the hole in the bottom corner of the device, into the hand of the hawker.

“Your green team has been passed at the finish line, my friend.” The hawker shoved the coin he had been holding into the pouch hanging from his belt. “A good effort though. I liked the way you cut off Porphyrius at the second turn.”

The men in front laughed. The loser did his best to smile. He probably felt like having the drink which he no longer could afford.

“Red again,” came a voice from beside John. He turned his head. Shock washed over him. He was looking into the face of the Blue he had pulled from the cistern.

No, it was simply another Blue, with the same partly shaved head and braid of hair.

“The Reds seem to be winning most of time,” the Blue said. “I think things are rigged in their favor.”

“Maybe it’s just time they made a comeback,” put in a stocky fellow with sawdust on his tunic.

A short, slight man with the pale skin of a clerk from one of the imperial offices, shook his head. “Can’t you see it’s rigged? Why do you suppose the villain has a whole tray of those colored balls? Whichever team’s wagered on, he selects the balls accordingly. Some are heavier or lighter. Some are misshapen.”

The Blue rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It could be. Nothing’s fair in this city, is it?”

“No one would wager on finding fairness in Constantinople,” agreed the stocky man. “Look at those two poor fellows the emperor’s imprisoned at Saint Laurentius. I’m told he had them hung-and twice-because someone in their group made a disparaging comment about that actress he’s married to.”

“Justinian wouldn’t do such a thing,” said the Blue.

“I thought everyone was demanding the release of those unfortunates,” John said. “Particularly the factions. Don’t tell me you support Justinian, after what he’s done to us all?”

“We’re not all against the emperor,” the Blue replied. “Why would we be? He’s supported us for years. I’m sure he’ll be setting those men free.”

“You don’t think those two are still alive, do you?” sneered the clerk. “People can demand that Justinian release them but even the emperor can’t release anyone from the afterlife. I have it on good authority that he had their throats slit the moment they arrived at the church.”

“Sounds like something Theodora would order, behind the emperor’s back,” remarked the Blue.

A cheer went up from the spectators as another race of colored balls concluded.

When the noise died down John said, “I’m told one of the man was Gaius.” He picked the name out of the air.

The Blue seemed to actually see him for the first time and his gaze grew cold. “I have no idea who the prisoners are. Not friends of mine, certainly.” He quickly moved away.

Turning, John saw that the clerk had vanished when he wasn’t looking. He regretted now having worn the heavy, luxurious cloak that probably identified him as someone closely associated with the palace, someone to whom it might not be wise to say too much.

Nevertheless he wandered through the assembly, listening, trying to strike up conversations, turning the subject always to the condemned men. He learned nothing. Even a laborer in a threadbare tunic, exultant over having just won three week’s wages, turned sober when John tried to question him. Whatever their profession or station in life, all residents of the capital were highly suspicious and skilled at self-preservation.

Someone laughed. John saw it was Junius, the young charioteer he had spoken with inside the Hippodrome.

“I warned you that no one knows the emperor’s enemies, even if they do sympathize with them,” said Junius.

“You seem to have been prophetic,” John admitted. “Maybe you should try your luck at the game.”

“It doesn’t take a prophet to realize no one is going to risk being suspected of having any connection to men the emperor has seen fit to hang. You might have better success questioning beggars. Charioteers will never tell you anything. Not even if you pay them.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Suppose you offer me a bit of gold in return for information. Not that I have any information. If I take it I’m wagering that the emperor won’t have me dragged to the dungeons. Now if I were a beggar living on the street, with no future and no hope, it might be different. I might take the chance. But as it is, it would be stupid. Look at Porphyrius. He’s grown rich from racing. Most charioteers won’t, but still, we might. We wager we’ll win a prize every time we take to the track. That’s dangerous too, but not as dangerous as wagering on Justinian’s actions.”

John had to acknowledge the truth of what Junius said, though he didn’t do so aloud.

The audience seemed to be thinning.

The hawker in the multi-colored robes noticed.“What, no one else wants to test their skill? Fortuna drives too ruthlessly today, does she?”

“Do you hand our coins over to Fortuna?” someone yelled.

The hawker ignored the jibe. “Wait. I have an idea.”

He scrambled off the cart and reached behind one of the wheels. “Look! This explains it!” He pulled out a scroll, as long as his arm. From a distance it resembled lead but must have been dyed parchment because he could never have brandished such a weight over his head as he proceeded to do.

“Now you see why you have been losing all afternoon. Have you ever seen a bigger curse tablet?”

He let the scroll unroll. It reached to his feet. “There’s not a demon left in hell. Every last one’s been called up here to hobble your horses and steal your coins!”

Junius chuckled. “I don’t doubt it. I hear a demon was spotted on the docks. And in other places too.”

“They don’t seem to have confined themselves to interfering with the races,” John remarked.

The hawker made a show of pouring what he claimed was holy water over the scroll. By the time he climbed back onto the cart the crowd was laughing and interested again. “Now, who has the courage to race?”

“Why don’t you try?” Junius said to John. “See if Fortuna is on your side or not?”

“I’d rather not put Fortuna to the test for matters of no consequence.”

He noticed that the Blue he had spoken to earlier was standing on the cart.

“And which team do you support?” the hawker asked.

“The Blues. The emperor’s team!”

There was general muttering.

“And who amongst us would disagree with that,” the hawker said loudly, handing the Blue four colored balls.

“Fortuna!” someone yelled in answer.

“The demons,” suggested another.

The Blue dropped the balls into the top hole. They flashed down through the maze-like track, popping in and out of sight. When the winner burst out of the machine the hawker looked startled. The ball skidded out of his hand, hit the bottom of the cart, and bounced away.

Several shouts joined each other. “Red again!”