tightly bound. The captives looked desperately round the immense, silent crowd, jerking at the chains that held them together.
‘Behold the malefactors and authors of our woe, dear and cultivated people of the City,’ the herald continued. ‘Behold these woeful seven, chosen by lot from those whose duty it was to stand and fight in defence of our loved ones, but whose inclination was to flee for the safety of the gates. Let them now suffer the punishment of cowardice.’
The administration of the Circus is nothing if not professional. It can bring on and set up a display with wondrous speed. It can clear the wreckage and bodies of a racing accident almost before the cheers are ended.
Now slaves brought out seven great bronze vessels. Each was about four feet deep and three across. Covered with a domed iron cage, each stood on three legs about three feet off the ground. The slaves set these at points about the racecourse so that each was no more than a hundred yards from the spectators. Under them the slaves heaped piles of faggots and charcoal.
As the chains holding the prisoners together were unlocked, and each was dragged towards one of the vessels, the men let out a terrified wail. Lamentations and pleas for mercy mingled with sounds of pure animal fear. One fell down on the packed sand and, still tightly bound, tried to wriggle like a worm back towards the now closed gate. But he might as well have tried to hold back the progress of the seasons. He was dragged to his fate, leaving a trail of excrement behind him. A slave followed behind, thoughtfully cleaning the mess away.
The domed cages swung open on their hinges and each prisoner was put into one of the vessels. Then the cages were locked down.
Even before pitchers of water were rushed in for filling the vessels, I knew what was coming. My hunting companions of the previous day pushed their way down to the front and stood beside me. One stretched himself over the barrier to get as close as possible to the domed vessel placed at the apex of the Circus bend. He was pulled back by one of the guards and made to stand at the same distance as everyone else.
Apart from the continuous horrified wailing of the prisoners, silence descended over the Circus. The upper rows were now deserted. The front rows were blocked with a scrimmage of people who, in their bright robes, reminded me of the surf on Dover Beach where, of a late summer evening, the white is mingled with blue and red and green.
Not a man so much as coughed as the kindling was set alight.
To narrate the full detail of these executions would be artistically wearisome. It is enough to say that, if you are boiled alive slowly enough from cold, you cook before you die, and you remain conscious well into the cooking.
But this wasn’t the end of the proceedings. As the last body splashed silent into the bubbling waters, the herald spoke again.
‘Be it ever such with those who dare betray the Sacred Trust of Our Gracious Lord Phocas, anointed with the Holy Oil of our Blessed Mother Church. Let oblivion be their lot in this world, and eternal perdition in the next.’
And now the crowd was back to the expected responses. With the thundering fervour of these words, I could feel the general mood brightening. The people still weren’t happy with Phocas. His alleged bungling of the barbarian raid was a cover for all the other grievances against him. But everyone seemed to agree that he had done well to make an example of those guards. It had been their duty to stand and fight. If they had done that, they might even have driven the savages off. There was no doubt they had some punishment coming.
And the Circus crowd in Constantinople does enjoy a good public execution. For all his other derelictions, Phocas certainly knew how to jolly the Circus along in that respect. A few years earlier, he’d had one of his best generals burned to death in the Circus. That hadn’t gone down well with the armies of the East, which had downed weapons in protest, but it had delighted the crowd.
The herald still wasn’t finished. I saw Theophanes raise one of his arms. I felt Alypius touch me from behind.
‘Get ready,’ he whispered. ‘They need you sooner than expected. When I push you, get up and go down to the racecourse. Walk slowly across to the Imperial Box. Go to Caesar. Don’t stop, whatever happens. Don’t speak to anyone but Caesar, and wait till he speaks to you. Do you understand?’
‘But’ – the herald’s voice now took on a brighter tone – ‘let us now behold how graciously Caesar receives those who in his service have acquitted themselves nobly.’
I felt a pressure on my lower back.
‘Go,’ Alypius hissed. ‘Remember what I told you.’
As I stood up, Martin reached for my hand. His was cold and trembling. ‘Go with God,’ he said in Latin.
Authari mumbled a blessing in Lombardic, his other languages swept away by all the brutal mysteries of the Circus.
I patted them both on the shoulder, trying to look more nonchalant than I felt. I was beginning to shake, my head curiously light.
The guards by the staircase parted and I walked down to the racecourse.
‘We stand for Alaric of Britain,’ the herald shrilled, ‘Champion of the Empire, witness to the Miracles of Saint Victorinus.’
I heard the collective rustling of cloth as thirty thousand people rose together. From every direction around me came the roared acclamations. They seemed to go on for ever as I walked alone across the racecourse. From the corner of my eye, I could see the puffy white flesh of an arm that still broke the surface of the water in one of those vessels. It left me impassive.
Then I was walking with the spina on my left as I approached the Imperial Box.
As I reached the charioteers – who were still waiting for their races to begin – they touched their foreheads in a simultaneous gesture of respect.
The guards parted again to let me up the staircase to the Senatorial Terrace. The Patriarch scowled at me through his beard as I passed. The Senators stretched out their arms to me, shouting the same acclamations as the crowd. I paid no attention to them, but continued past, up the final staircase into the August Presence.
As I arrived there, I was met by Theophanes. He gave me his most inscrutable look. ‘You know the ritual?’ he said, speaking softly.
I did. I now performed it for Caesar – down on the knees in one slow movement, then down again, arms forward, palms upward, face on the ground, in the gesture of complete submission to power that the ancient Emperors had made a point of not demanding. It had come in with Diocletian, had been kept on by the Great Constantine and used by every Christian Emperor since.
As a matter of course, it had also been claimed by the popes as soon as there was no Western Emperor to make a fuss.
As I was grovelling elegantly before Phocas, and wondering what else might be expected of me, I heard a voice above me – rough and strangely cheerful. I could smell the wine fumes from a good six feet away.
‘Well, come on, my lad, get up. I can’t have my champion taking cold on that marble.’
33
As I got up, Phocas stood forward to help me to my feet. Holding my hand in his aloft, he faced the crowd. As planned, the roaring started again – but this time for Phocas as well as for me.
‘Many years and good fortune to Phocas, our Great Emperor,’ the chanting began. ‘Many years to the Orthodox Augustus and Autocrator. Many years to the New Constantine, the New Justinian. Glory and Honour to His Mighty Name.’
The chanting switched to Latin, which was – and still is – used in moments of great public solemnity.
‘ Bene, bene, Auguste,’ it began. ‘ Conseruet Deus imperium tuum. Uictor sis semper. Deus te praestet…’
And so it continued in great waves of adulation. The Empire is no sort of democracy. But you need to know how to manage the crowd in the Circus if you want to last on the Imperial Throne. And Phocas had, against all the odds, pulled that off again.
