Eight for Eternity

Chapter Fourteen

January 13, 532

Late in the afternoon the twentieth chariot race began. Or was it the twenty-first? Or twenty-second? John had lost count. It wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t slept the previous night. Justinian, seated on the throne in the kathisma, looked bored. He fiddled with the purple embroidered hem of his light wool cloak. The imperial box was cold. Located at the highest level of the Hippodrome it was easy prey for the winds that swirled around the vast stadium.

The emperor would probably be happier in his private apartments, John thought, and not just because of the weather. No matter which teams won, these races were not going to end as the emperor had planned when he sent John to Saint Laurentius for the prisoners.

The sky was leaden, glowering as if in disapproval of the events unfolding below. The thousands occupying the tiers of wooden seats seemed in ill humor as well.

There was an ominous note in the factions’ chants of “Mercy for the hanged men!” that had accompanied the races already run, rolling out like thunder over the sound of chariot wheels and hooves beating a fierce tattoo on the track around the spina.

It was a sound that warned John, even exhausted as he was, that the usual rivalry of the factions was rapidly brewing into something worse.

John moved through the courtiers flanking the emperor to the back of the kathisma where Felix stood guard. “There’s more than a sprinkling of blue clothing in that mass of Greens opposite.”

Felix nodded. “I thought you’d notice that. It’s unnatural for the factions to mingle without blood being spilled. It can only mean trouble.” Except for the dark bags beneath his eyes, Felix showed no effects of his nocturnal campaign against Constantine. In fact, his expression suggested he might enjoy being called upon to act in his official capacity against a less than imperial rabble composed of flesh and blood rather than bronze and marble.

Cheers briefly submerged the continual rumble of demands as a chariot for the Greens careened around the turning posts in a shower of sand behind its four straining horses, remained upright by some miracle, and sped across the chalk finish line.

The driver just behind was not so fortunate or skilled. His chariot slewed to one side and crashed into the wall of the spina. Workers rushed onto the track to pull the wreckage out of the path of the trailing chariots. The horses rushed on, encumbered only by their yoke, while the driver staggered to safety.

The crowd cheered this mishap more loudly than the finish.

“A victory satisfies only half the partisans,” John remarked. “Everyone loves an accident.”

After a time the cheers, catcalls, and oaths ringing round the stadium subsided. A sudden stillness descended. It was as if the entire population of the city held its breath.

Then the rumble of discontent began once more. “Mercy for the hanged men!”

Justinian fidgeted on his throne. Below the imperial box dust rose as men raked the earth and sand smooth for the next race. “Narses!” Justinian commanded. “Step forth!”

The dwarfish eunuch rustled to the emperor’s side, and bent forward to hear a whispered question.

From where he stood, John could not hear what it was Justinian had asked. He was able to make out Narse’s answer. “It would be a grave mistake to accede to the demands of the unwashed horde. Where would it end? Offer them nothing.”

Justinian smiled faintly. His merriment did not reach his eyes. He motioned to the guards on either side of this throne and they unsheathed their swords.

“Won’t do them any good if the crowd swarms up here,” Felix muttered.

Narses glanced around with a sneer. It was common rumor he had supernaturally keen hearing and it was a wise man who said nothing incriminating within sight of him, though others claimed that his knowledge of who had said what and when was gained by a vast network of spies inside and outside the palace grounds.

He addressed the emperor again, more loudly than was necessary, loudly enough to be heard by half the dignitaries in the imperial box. His reedy voice sounded shrill. “Caesar, it is in fact impossible to agree to mercy for the hanged men given they have been murdered. You cannot even produce their murderers thanks to John’s bungling of his task. Yet if you attempt to explain this to those fools howling down there, there is no doubt some will seize upon the news and declare that it was you who ordered them executed in the very church itself.”

Justinian frowned. It was obvious that Narses was reiterating a conversation they had already engaged in for the benefit of those within earshot. “It is as you say, Narses,” he replied, his tone bland.

Felix swore quietly. “Did you hear, John? That bastard Narses is blaming you. As if you could have prevented those guards failing in their duty,” he said in an outraged undertone. “And by what I hear their commander should have been pensioned off years ago. Completely useless and paying for it in a dark cell right now. In fact, there are those who whisper he was chosen specially for the task so that….” He lowered his voice even further “…certain parties could get to those prisoners and murder them.”

John recalled the elderly commander, Sebastian, being dragged out of the emperor’s reception hall to the dungeons. He preferred not to think about the poor fellow’s current situation. Sebastian had struck John as a frightened and confused old man. Not fit to command, but even less fit to be a conspirator. “What about the guards themselves?” John whispered. “Do you suppose they were bribed to ignore orders and allow the assassin to carry out his task?”

Before Felix could answer the angry rumble of the assembly swelled into a deafening roar. John could feel the noise vibrating up through the soles of his boots. It was just as well the imperial box jutted out from the stands in such a way as to be inaccessible to the spectators. And even more fortunate that the doorway in back led to a suite of rooms, and a stairway that ended inside the palace grounds not far from the Daphne Palace.

Felix leaned forward to peer past the emperor’s throne. “It’s Porphyrius,” he said. “Porphyrius is racing.”

From the back of the kathisma the track was all but obscured by a multitude of patricians and officials. Usually they milled about, talking and laughing, more interested in each other than the spectacle below. Now they were all standing in rapt attention.

“He hasn’t got the lead,” Felix said.

Thanks to his height, John could see over most of the heads in front of him. Even from a distance, through clouds of dust raised by flashing hooves, he recognized the driver with the cropped grey hair. Whipping his horses furiously, Porphyrius passed the bronze statue of himself erected on the spina by the Greens and then the gold likeness placed there by the Blues.

Felix shook his head. “He must have broken from the gate very badly. There are two chariots between him and the spina. He can’t win from out there.”

John knew Felix was right. No matter how strong the horses, they could never cover the extra distance around the outside of the track quickly enough to overtake the two teams on the inside. Porphyrius was usually a fury in the melee coming out of the gates as the drivers fought to be first to reach the spina.

As the chariots reached the far turning posts the driver who had gained the inside erred. John wasn’t surprised. It must be unnerving to have to spend a race endlessly passing monuments to your opponent’s greatness.

A wheel clipped the track’s inner barrier. The chariot bounced off into the path of those following. Both drivers reined in their horses and swerved to the outside to avoid a collision. An errant wheel, snapped from an axle, spun wildly down the track along the side of the spina.

The wrecked chariot flipped over, dragging two of the horses to the ground with it. Any sounds of agony were drowned out by the crowd’s clamor.

Porphyrius and his opponent were practically underneath the kathisma. Several dignitaries in splendid robes leaned over the side of the emperor’s box, shaking their fists and screaming encouragement as enthusiastically as the lowliest laborers in the stands.

John glanced at Justinian. The emperor wasn’t looking at the track. His gaze appeared to be directed toward the masses opposite, or the grey sky, or, to judge by the look in his eyes, nowhere at all.

The trailing chariots were just appearing around the turn. Porphyrius reared back and lashed savagely at his steeds. Almost instantaneously his opponent did the same.

Felix, seemingly as carried away as everyone else save the emperor, shouted in John’s ear. “Whoever claims the inside wins!”

John looked down the track. One of the workers employed to clear wreckage had jumped onto the track and caught up with the run-away wheel. He bent to grab hold of it. He was a boy. When he straightened up four horses and a chariot were coming straight at him.

Porphyrius had time to slow his team or turn aside to avoid the boy. Instead he bought his whip down again.

The boy stood frozen. At the last possible instant he threw himself to one side.

Then Porphyrius was racing alongside the spina in the favored position.

With only two laps left he could not be caught. When he crossed the finish line the crowd screamed and stamped until it felt as if an earthquake was about to bring the Hippodrome down.

Justinian remained lost in thought to all appearances. John wondered if he was contemplating the awesome power of this mass of humanity. If directed rightly, they surely could bring down the palace walls.

Porphyrius was making his slow victory lap. He did not wave to the spectators, or look to either side.

Felix’s voice rasped in John’s ear again. “Can you see what color he’s wearing? Isn’t he supposed to race for the Blues?”

John peered toward the track. “I can’t make it out. He’s covered with dust.”

He saw Narses saying something to the emperor who nodded. Justinian beckoned to a large man wearing a toga of the ancient style and holding a jeweled scepter. John recognized the man as an imperial herald. Justinian spoke, gesturing as he did, apparently giving instructions.

As Porphyrius completed his circuit of the track and came even with the kathisma, the herald stepped up onto the low platform at the front of the box and raised the scepter. The masses, focussed on Porphyrius noticed the movement in the imperial box. Silence fell. Was the emperor about to make an offering to them? But what did he have to offer to cool their anger?

Accompanied by several guards Justinian, Narses at his heels, brushed past John and Felix.

“Romans, your emperor greets you.” The herald’s trained voice rang out, audible to every ear in the eerily quiet stadium. “Now, as we all rejoice in this great hour of victory, know that our beloved emperor Justinian, merciful and just, has heard your plea. Content yourselves that in his benevolence and wisdom, he chooses to serve his people and his God. To protect the empire and its citizens from those who would do it harm the emperor decrees that the two faction members be kept in safety until they can be released without danger. Now let us offer our praise to both the emperor and our glorious champion, Porphyrius.”

John thought the herald rushed the final sentence a bit. The big man practically fell over his dragging toga as he hastened off the speaking platform and out of the imperial box.

The dignitaries looked at each other and the suddenly empty throne in confusion. The throng remained silent. Stunned. They had expected their demands to be met or, perhaps, rejected. Justinian had done neither.

Standing in his chariot on the track, facing away from the kathisma toward the stands where the Greens were seated, Porphyrius raised both arms high above his head.

The Greens exploded. If the previous uproar had been the low rumble of an earthquake this one was a thunderclap. A thunderclap that went on and on.

As Porphyrius pivoted to face the Blues, John saw the reason. The great charioteer wore no colors. He was dressed in dull brown. But his upraised palms had been painted-one blue, the other green.

***

The outcry carried to the seashore where the ragged man who had claimed he would walk into the palace and take the demon emperor to task sat with his feet in the seawater, devouring a raw fish. He looked up at the wheeling cloud of gulls overhead and smiled.

“Doves of the sea, it will not be long….”

And then on the malodorous wind came an even louder cry, torn from thousands of angry throats: “Long live the Blues and Greens! Long live the mercy of the Greens and Blues!”

The man eating a fish smiled again. “Old enemies are uniting, my feathered friends,” he said, throwing fish bones into the water. “Soon they will receive good tidings….”