Up The Line

25.

It was a big group: twelve tourists, Metaxas, and me. They always loaded a few extras into his tours because he was such an unusually capable Courier and in such great demand. I tagged along as an assistant, soaking up experience against my first solo trip, which would be coming next time.

Our dozen included three young and pretty single girls, Princeton co-eds making the Byzantium trip on gifts from their parents, who wanted them to learn something; two of the customary well-to-do middle-aged couples, one from Indianapolis and one from Milan; two youngish interior decorators, male and queer, from Beirut; a recently divorced response manipulator from New York, around forty-five and hungry for women; a puffy-faced little high-school teacher from Milwaukee, trying to improve his mind, and his wife; in short, the customary sampling.

At the end of the first introductory session all three of the Princeton girls, both interior decorators, and the Indianapolis wife were visibly hungering to go to bed with Metaxas. Nobody paid much attention to me.

“It will be different after the tour starts,” said Metaxas consolingly. “Several of the girls will become available to you. You do want the girls, don’t you?”

He was right. On our first night up the line he picked one of the Princeton girls for himself, and the other two resigned themselves speedily to accepting the second best. For some reason, Metaxas chose a pugnosed redhead with splashy freckles and big feet. He left for me a long, cool, sleek brunette, so flawless in every way that she was obviously the product of one of the world’s finest helix men, and a cute, cheerful honey-blonde with warm eyes, smooth flesh, and the breasts of a twelve-year-old. I picked the brunette and regretted it; she came on in bed like something made of plastic. Toward dawn I traded her for the blonde and had a better time.

Metaxas was a tremendous Courier. He knew everybody and everything, and maneuvered us into superb positions for the big events.

“We are now,” he said, “in January, 532. The Emperor Justinian rules. His ambition is to conquer the world and govern it from Constantinople, but most of his great achievements lie ahead. The city, as you see, still looks much as it did in the last century. In front of you is the Great Palace; to the rear is the rebuilt Haghia Sophia of Theodosius II, following the old basilica plan, not yet reconstructed with the familiar domes. The city is tense; there will soon be civil disorder. Come this way.”

Shivering in the cold, we followed Metaxas through the city, down byways and avenues I had not traveled when I came this way earlier with Capistrano. Never once on this trip did I catch sight of my other self or Capistrano or any of that group; one of Metaxas’ legendary skills was his ability to find new approaches to the standard scenes.

Of course, he had to. At this moment there were fifty or a hundred Metaxases leading tours through Justinian’s city. As a matter of professional pride he wouldn’t want to intersect any of those other selves.

“There are two factions in Constantinople now,” said Metaxas. “The Blues and the Greens, they are called. They consist of perhaps a thousand men on each side, all trouble-makers, and far more influential than their numbers indicate. The factions are something less than political parties, something more than mere supporters of sports teams, but they have characteristics of both. The Blues are more aristocratic; the Greens have links to the lower classes and the commercial strata. Each faction backs a team in the Hippodrome games, and each backs a certain course of governmental policies. Justinian has long been sympathetic to the Blues, and the Greens mistrust him. But as emperor he has tried to appear neutral. He would actually like to suppress both factions as threats to his power. Each night now the factions run wild in the streets. Look: those are the Blues.”

Metaxas nodded at a cluster of insolent-looking bravos across the way: eight or nine idling men with long tumbles of thick hair to their shoulders, and festoons of beards and mustaches. They had cut back only the hair on the front of their heads. Their tunics were drawn in tight at the wrists, but flared out enormously from there to the shoulders; they wore gaudy capes and breeches and carried short two-edged swords. They looked brutal and dangerous.

“Wait here,” said Metaxas, and went over to them.

The Blues greeted him like an old friend. They clapped him on the back, laughed, shouted in glee. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I saw Metaxas grasping hands, talking quickly, articulately, confidently. One of the Blues offered him a flask of wine and he took a deep drink; then, hugging the man in mock tipsiness, Metaxas cunningly whisked the Blue’s sword from its sheath and pretended to run him through. The rowdies capered and applauded. Now Metaxas pointed at us; there were nods of agreement, oglings of the girls, winks, gestures. Finally we were summoned across the street.

“Our friends invite us to the Hippodrome as their guests,” said Metaxas. “The races begin next week. Tonight we are permitted to join them in their revels.”

I could hardly believe it. When I’d been here with Capistrano, we skulked about, keeping out of sight, for this was a time of rape and murder by night, and all laws ceased to function after dark. How did Metaxas dare to bring us so close to the criminals?

He dared. And that night we roamed Constantinople, watching the Blues rob, ravish, and kill. For other citizens, death lay just around any corner; we were immune, privileged witnesses to the reign of terror. Metaxas presided over the nightmare prowl like a sawed-off Satan, cavorting with his Blue friends and even fingering one or two victims for them.

In the morning it seemed like a dream. The phantoms of violence vanished with the night; by pale winter sunlight we inspected the city and listened to Metaxas’ historical commentary.

“Justinian,” he said, “was a great conqueror, a great lawgiver, a great diplomat, and a great builder. This is history’s verdict. We also have the Secret History of Procopius, which says that Justinian was both a knave and a fool, and that his wife Theodora was a demonic whorish villainess. I know this Procopius: a good man, a clever writer, something of a puritan, a little too gullible. But he’s right about Justinian and Theodora. Justinian is a great man in the great things and a terribly evil man in the petty things. Theodora” — he spat — “is a whore among whores. She dances naked at dinners of state; she exhibits her body in public; she sleeps with her servants. I’ve heard she gives herself to dogs and donkeys, too. She’s every bit as depraved as Procopius claims.”

Metaxas’ eyes twinkled. I knew without being told that he must have shared Theodora’s bed.

Later that day he whispered, “I can arrange it for you. The risks are slight. Did you ever dream you could sleep with the Empress of Byzantium?”

“The risks—”

“What risks? You have your timer! You can get free! Listen to me, boy, she’s an acrobat! She wraps her heels around your ears. She consumes you. I can fix it up for you. The Empress of Byzantium! Justinian’s wife!”

“Not this trip,” I blurted. “Some other time. I’m still too new at this business.”

“You’re afraid of her.”

“I’m not ready to fuck an empress just yet,” I said solemnly.

“Everybody else does it!”

“Couriers?”

“Most of them.”

“On my next trip,” I promised. The idea appalled me. I had to turn it off somehow. Metaxas misunderstood; I wasn’t shy, or afraid of being caught by Justinian, or anything like that; but I couldn’t bring myself to intersect with history that way. Traveling up the line was still fantasy for me; humping the celebrated monstress Theodora would make the fantasy all too real. Metaxas laughed at me, and for a while I think he felt contempt for me. But afterward he said, “It’s okay. Don’t let me rush you into things. When you’re ready for her, though, don’t miss her. I recommend her personally.”