“What do you intend to do, Despotes?” Mundus looked impatient, Belisarius doubtful.
“I must talk to my people,” Justinian reiterated.
He should have spoken before, I thought, but did not say. I feared it was too late. But the Emperor was adamant. He called for the Grand Chamberlain, who controls the races and who looked considerably the worse for wear. The Emperor announced: “The races will go on.”
“But Despotes,” exclaimed the man, almost breathless with anxiety, “that cannot be wise! The mob, Despotes, has turned into a … a veritable dragon. Belching flames. Such a mob has a mind of its own, I have seen it before, and truly it is to be feared!”
“The mob has calmed down,” said Justinian, possibly with more assurance than he really felt. “It is extremely important that normal routine should be preserved, and that we should exhibit firm resolve and belief in customary procedures.”
So the word went out that the races were to be resumed. Justinian strode along the corridors, leading a doubtful entourage, and accompanied by Theodora, who refused to remain behind in safety.
Justinian took up his position in the Kathisma. A man not without courage, one must give him that. I had the royal party well protected, as unobtrusively as possible, and positioned myself at the shoulder of the Emperor.
But it was the riot, not the races, that took off again. The dragon gathered its strength and lumbered, roaring, to the Baths of Zeuxippus, where it blasted the elegant building with its fiery breath. The pillared marble venue, together with its magnificent collection of ancient sculptures – another symbol of power and privilege – went up like an enormous torch.
“Narses,” said Justinian, “if this rampage continues, what else will they destroy? This must stop!” His frown was fierce as he watched the irate mob pouring into the Hippodrome.
For certain they were in no mood for sport. In fact, so many people piled into the Hippodrome that racing would have been extremely dangerous. In the pen beneath the Kathisma the horses neighed, probably frightened by the acrid smell of fire and trails of smoke carried overhead by the strong wind. Clearly the chariots would not tear around the track on this fateful day; even on the spina people were standing ten deep. High above their heads the sun struck flames from the bronze highlights on the Serpentine Column, atop which the ferocious heads of the three intertwined snakes seemed to be grinning in mockery.
The demarchs of the Blues and Greens addressed the Emperor as they had done before, but their tone had changed from the formally respectful to the peremptory. They stood shoulder to shoulder, emphasising their unprecedented cooperation, and stated their demands in turn. From my position close to the Emperor, I could see the two men clearly: the Blue tall, broad-shouldered, sporting the partisan shaved forehead, long back hair, full beard, Hunnish trousers, billowing sleeves and short cloak; the Green shorter, stocky, garbed more conventionally in a long tunic that bared his muscular arms. The Blue had an authoritative, carrying voice, the Green more of a deep rumble; both could be clearly heard.
“Despotes,” said the Blue demarch, and I detected a note of scorn in what is normally an appellation of the highest respect, “Despotes, the two fugitives in the church must be set free. Immediately.”
“And given full pardon,” added the Green demarch. “God has been merciful. The Emperor can be no less.”
Justinian stood, rather than sitting as he usually did in the Kathisma. He leaned forward and murmured to his official spokesman, the mandator.
“Very well,” the Mandator responded. “We hear you. Your petition is granted.”
A roar went up. But if Justinian had thought that this would be the end of it, he was mistaken.
“Furthermore, Despotes,” the Blue continued, “the people demand the summary dismissal of those officials who are not worthy of the positions they hold.”
More cheers rang from thousands of throats.
“Eudaemon, Prefect of this city,” the Green said, in his deep voice. Enthusiastic applause.
“Tribonian, Minister of Justice,” called the Blue. Raucous approval.
“And John of Cappadocia, Prefect of the East,” added the Green. The crowd bellowed its agreement, a wave of sound that engulfed the Kathisma.
“Granted,” said the Mandator as instructed by Justinian. “We hear you. All three shall be dismissed. We give our word.”
A sustained roar. Feet drummed. A messenger arrived, black with soot, to inform the Emperor that the northern end of the Augusteum was in flames. Clouds of smoke were billowing across the Hippodrome.
Angrily, Justinian drew his cloak around him. “Narses,” he ordered, “see to it that the three persons mentioned are brought into the palace so that they may be kept safe.” He turned his back on the populace and swept out with Theodora. In a shaky voice the Grand Chamberlain announced, unnecessarily, that there would be no sport this day.
I gave orders for guards to escort the three disgraced officials to the palace, together with key senators. Cappadocian John and Tribonian stalked in angrily, while the dour Eudaemon kept his head down, his horsy face miserable, since his men should have quelled this riot at the start. Also shepherded in were Hypatius and Pompeius, since I judged that anyone with royal pretensions would be better under my own eyes. Their youngest brother, Probus, had fled the city at the first sign of rebellion. Probably wisely. The three nephews of the old king Anastasius are but a sorry lot, yet when all is said and done, they do have royal blood.
What next? We can but wait, and watch.
Chapter 5: Comito acts
“Theod-dora,” said Peter, “you need to g-get ready. I’ll walk you and C-Comito to the K-Kynêgion. I have to p-practise a new act with the b-bears.”
Comito at thirteen was already a star of the stage, and today Theodora was due to make her first appearance with her sister. A non-speaking part; she would merely be a slave who had to carry a stool. Yet she was nervous. The Kynêgion did not hold good memories for her. Sometimes she dreamed that she had to face that awful, scornful silence again, and in her dreams she and her mother and her sisters always shrank until they were invisible and about to be trodden into the sand, at which point she would wake up screaming.
On the other hand, in a way she looked forward to it. If Comito could do it, so could she. She knew she was not as good as her sister at dancing and singing, but she was determined to find her own way to entertain all those men. All she had to offer was her body – sadly, it was still just like the body of a young boy, straight and flatchested. No curves, no hips and breasts to unclothe in a teasing way. Nothing to make men sweat and stamp and whistle and cheer. But she had worked hard with the acrobats. She was agile and lithe. She would find a way.
“Coming, Peter,” she called. She had made her peace with him. He had come back after her furious tirade that self-same night, so drunk that he must have forgotten all that had been said. He crept up the stairs and threw up into his vegetable basket. Then he crawled into bed beside his wife and filled the small quarters with rasping snores throughout what was left of the night. The next morning he was shame-faced and apologised humbly.
Life went on. They survived. Always precariously on the edge of destitution, dependent on the contribution of each one of them who could earn something. But they did survive.
Peter left the two girls at the dressing-room. It was a bustle of dancers preparing for a spectacular mime that involved birds. They walked into a warm miasma of sweating bodies overlaid with the pungent scents of stage make-up and the gum that was used to attach glitter and feathers to bare skin. The women wore very little clothing, but enormous feathered wings trailed from their arms and they were crowned with tall plumed headdresses. Sharp beaks were hooked onto their faces with loops around the ears. Comito was to play the part of a young princess who fell asleep and dreamed of birds.