Justinian

‘Your name is Peter, a cobbler to trade, of Aphrodisias in Caria?’ enquired Tribonian, his expression benevolent, his tone polite, kindly even.

The man nodded.

‘The charge against you is most serious, Peter: namely that, maliciously, feloniously, and seditiously, you did throw a stone or some such hard and weighty projectile at the Praefectus Urbis, causing it to strike him on the head, to his severe distress and hurt. How plead you to the charge?’

‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that, Your Most Notable!’ cried the man in desperation. ‘I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I–I just got caught up in the crowd and happened to be there when the prefect got hit.’

‘It were him all right, Most Notable,’ affirmed the first witness — one of the dreaded crew of delatores or informers, whose evidence was much called upon in public order cases. ‘I recognize him from that birthmark on his cheek.’

‘Then, Peter, I must find you guilty as charged,’ pronounced Tribonian in a sad voice. ‘As your action seems, on the evidence, to have been contributory to causing a violent affray in which several innocent parties were killed or injured, there can only be one sentence: death by hanging. Remove the prisoner.’

As Peter, white-faced and protesting, was bundled from the courtroom, an usher came up to the judge and whispered in his ear, ‘Next one’s a bigwig in the Blues, Spectabilis. Says the management’ll stump up five hundred solidi on his behalf.’

The next accused was found not guilty, despite two witnesses — one of them a vigil, swearing they had seen and heard him urging on the mob. .

The vast crowd assembled at Blachernae — a suburb of the capital just outside the great Wall of Theodosius where it sloped down towards the Golden Horn — fell silent as the last of those condemned following the riot in the Forum mounted the scaffold. Sweating and nervous, the hangman with trembling fingers tied the nooses round the necks of the ashen-faced damnati. He’d be glad when this particular job was over, the man thought fervently. Usually, the spectators were in a holiday mood at hangings. This time however, the crowd was hostile, roaring its sympathy and disapproval as each of the two previous batches was despatched. He modded to his assistant.

The hangman’s helper pulled away the bolt securing the platform on which the condemned men stood. The trap swung down on its hinges; the three men dropped. One hung suspended, his neck broken by the jerk, but the other two fell to the ground, the nooses having come untied. As they lay wriggling on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs, the crowd roared once more, surging forward in a menacing wave as the executioners, now visibly frightened, made to resume their grim task. Shouts of ‘String them up!’ — directed at the hangmen not their victims, filled the air. At the same time, a party of monks from the nearby monastery of St Conon ran forward, seized the prostrate pair and, protected by a wildly cheering crowd, rushed them to the Church of St Lawrence in the vicinity, where they were granted sanctuary.

The following day — Monday the twelfth of January — as the news spread that one of the men taken to St Lawrence was a Blue, the other a Green, the two Circus factions abandoned their traditional hostility, and joined forces to become the mouthpiece of the mob. Mass demonstrations organized by the Blues-cum-Greens assembled in front of the Praetorium, the Palace, and the Law Courts, shouting for the dismissal of the prefect, of Tribonian, and of John the Cappadocian, as well as for the pardon of the two in St Lawrence.

‘Best they get it out of their systems; by tomorrow they’ll have calmed down,’ Eudaemon said to his Number Two in the Praetorium, raising his voice in order to be heard above the baying of the mob outside. ‘With the opening of the races, they’ll be able to put their grievances directly to the emperor. Justinian’s basically decent and fair- minded. I’m sure he’ll listen to what they have to say, and try to put things right.’

‘Listen to yourself,’ sighed Phocas, shaking his head. ‘There are times, sir, when your faith in human nature is most touching. Unfortunately, things have got beyond the point where appeals to reason will — ’ He broke off, as the shutters over the windows started juddering as a barrage of missiles from outside thumped against them. ‘See what I mean, sir?’ he went on with a sardonic grin. He shrugged. ‘Still, I suppose I could be wrong. Let’s hope I am, for all our sakes. Pray for rain, sir. A solid downpour will disperse a crowd far better than a baton charge.’

But the weather held. Tuesday, the thirteenth day of January — the Ides — dawned crisp and clear. From an early hour, the crowds, noticeably much larger than in previous years, poured into the Hippodrome, filling up the tiers in a close-packed mass, with standing-room only in the topmost row. And something else was different compared to previous occasions: instead of the usual background hum of excited chatter, silence, ominous and oppressive, hung over the scene. Justinian however, seated in the kathisma or royal box, alongside his spokesman, the Mandator, and the city prefect, seemed unaware of any tension in the atmosphere.

‘How’s the head?’ he enquired solicitously of Eudaemon, whose cranium was still swathed in bandages.

‘Still throbs a bit, Serenity, but improving by the day. My medicus assures me there’s no permanent damage.’ He went on in anxious tones, ‘Serenity — if I may presume to suggest, the sooner we get the races started the better. I don’t like the mood of the crowd.’

‘Really? The fact that they seem unusually quiet suggests to me they know they’ve gone too far, and are feeling chastened and contrite.’ He smiled at Eudaemon and patted his arm reassuringly. ‘I bow, however, to your judgement.’ Summoning one of the attendants on duty below the kathisma, he told the man, ‘Tell the editor* to hurry things along.’

Shortly afterwards, the man returned with a message: the editor would forego the usual perquisite of staging a procession, and let the races start immediately. A trumpet sounded, and from the open end of the stadium’s vast U shot the competing chariots, extremely light affairs with wide tyres for extra grip, each drawn by four horses, the inner pair yoked to the pole, the outer held on traces. As the vehicles flashed around the Spina — the long central barrier — it became immediately obvious, from their continued silence, that for once, the crowd had not come here for entertainment, but to confront the emperor. At the end of the first race, the two Demarchs — the official spokesmen for the Greens and Blues — addressed Justinian.

‘Thrice August One, knowing that you are just and merciful, we beg you to pardon the two damnati who have sought sanctuary in the Church of St Lawrence.’ Their tone, though respectful, held a hint of steel, suggesting they would not be satisfied until they had an answer — one moreover that acceded to their request (or rather, their politely framed demand).

While the Demarchs waited for a reply, Justinian whispered to Eudaemon, ‘Are the criminals securely held? We wouldn’t want a gang of vigilantes springing them from the church.’

‘Absolutely, Serenity,’ replied the prefect. ‘I’ve posted armed guards around St Lawrence. No one can get in or out. However, I do think it might be wise to do as the Demarchs ask. That would defuse the situation, and we’d still be seen to be acting from a position of strength.’

‘Certainly not,’ declared the emperor, sotto voce. ‘I’m surprised at you, Eudaemon. By letting the two men off, we’d appear weak, not strong. If we give in to pressure over this, the plebs will stage a riot every time they imagine they’ve a grievance.’ He turned to the Mandator. ‘Say nothing,’ he instructed.

The racing continued, the Demarchs, with mounting insistence, repeating their demand at the end of every race, only to be ignored. The silence of the spectators gradually gave way to an ominous low buzz of anger and frustration. Even a spectacular crash (known as a naufragia or ‘shipwreck’) failed to move the crowd.

Closely followed by a rival chariot, the leading vehicle, a Blue, had just rounded the end of the Spina for the seventh and last time, to hurtle down the final straight. But the pursuing Green, coming up on the inside, rapidly eroding the other’s lead drew level three hundred paces from the finish. Then the Blue, in a supremely daring move, swerved his chariot in beside the Green, hooked his right-hand wheel inside the other’s left then suddenly swung his team out, wrenching the wheel clean off. The Green’s axle bit the ground, causing the whole equipage to somersault and smash against the Spina in a tangle of flailing hooves, splintering wood, and whipping traces. The wretched driver, unable in time to draw his knife and cut the traces (tied around his waist for extra leverage on the turns), died, mangled in the wreckage. Normally, such an event would have elicited a collective gasp of fascinated horror from the spectators. This time however, preoccupied by the duel between Demarchs and