Justinian (18 page)

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
Mandator
, they remained indifferent.

The final race of the day, the twenty-second, ended without the emperor breaking his silence. The
Demarchs
, abandoning their appeals to spare the fugitives, suddenly began to shout, ‘Long live the humane Greens and Blues!' – an unprecedented show of co-operation, clearly evidence of a pre-arranged plan. Again and again, the cry was repeated, the Hippodrome erupting into a deafening uproar as the crowd joined in. Suddenly, a new, and chilling, watchword rose above the din: ‘
Nika
! – Conquer.' This was incitement to revolt; as if animated by a single mind, the crowd, chanting its new-found war cry, ‘
Nika! Nika! Nika!
', began streaming from the Hippodrome, intent on forcing the authorities to answer its demands.

Bewildered, Justinian turned to the prefect. ‘Eudaemon – what's happening?'

‘Their patience has finally snapped, Serenity. I did try to warn you. No telling what they'll do in the mood they're in now. You must return at once to the Palace; meanwhile, I'll go to the Praetorium and try to stall things. What shall I say to them?'

Dismayed and alarmed by the course events were taking, Justinian hesitated. Then he remembered: had he not received assurance he was God's Appointed? As his actions were determined by Jehovah's Will, surely then he need not fear their consequences? With confidence flooding back, he answered Eudaemon's query, ‘Why – tell them nothing, of course.'

‘But Serenity!'

‘Courage, friend. We mustn't waver now. If we stand firm, the people will be made to realize there's nothing to be gained by violence or noisy demonstration.'

The pair descended the spiral staircase behind the
kathisma
to the short passage connecting the Palace to the Hippodrome. While Justinian summoned the courtiers and Palace Guard, the prefect, shaking his head in despair, set out for the nearby Praetorium. He was met by a dishevelled Phocas heading towards him from that building.

‘Get back, sir!' shouted the
optio
. ‘There's nothing you can do. The mob's broken into the Praetorium, freed the prisoners from the cells, and killed any
vigiles
who tried to stop them. I barely escaped with my own life.
Look – they've set fire to the place!' And he pointed back to where lurid flames were shooting up against the evening sky.

The two men retreated to the Palace – not a moment too soon, as it transpired. Hardly had they been admitted via a postern gate than the mob, satisfied that the Praetorium was well ablaze, surged into the Augusteum – the great square before the Palace – shouting for the prefect and the emperor to appear. Their demands being met by silence, the mob – chanting, ‘
Nika! Nika! Nika!
' – vented its frustration by setting fire to the Chalke.

With the gatehouse an inferno, its great bronze doors reduced to pools of molten metal, the rampaging crowds, intoxicated by their own unpunished daring, moved on to fresh targets. ‘
Nika
!
Nika! Nika
!' Soon the huge church of Hagia Sophia was engulfed in flames, followed by the Senate House. ‘
Nika! Nika! Nika
!' At last, after setting fire to some public buildings on the Mesé, the mob dispersed in the small hours, sated with violence and tired out by the day's excitement.

Meanwhile, the Guards – more decorative than belligerent – instead of confronting the attackers had remained inside the Palace, preferring discretion to valour.

Within their private suite, God's Appointed, his earlier confidence now badly shaken, cried out to the empress, ‘God has abandoned me, Theodora! The people turn against me; the Guards' loyalty is suspect; I feel I cannot trust the courtiers and senators within the Palace! If I am still His Chosen One, then why is all this happening?'

‘God has
not
abandoned you, my dear,' Theodora said firmly, taking Justinian's hands in hers. ‘Merely tested you, as He tested Job, or His own Son when Satan tempted Him upon the mountain. Tomorrow, you must face the people; listen to what they have to say. It would appear they may have suffered grave injustices – carried out in your name by unworthy ministers. Promise to put things right, and all may yet be well.'

Comforted, ‘the Sleepless One' retired to bed, to snatch an hour or two of rest against the challenge of the coming day.

That same night, in another part of Region I, in the house of Methodius the
Caput Senatus
, there took place a meeting of senators, councillors, and great landowners. A distinguished-looking aristocrat was addressing the assembly. ‘Gentlemen – the Greens and Blues have served us well by stirring up the plebs against Justinian's regime,' declared the speaker, one Gaius Anicius Julianus, a senator who, from the moment of its convening,
had stamped his personality on the gathering. (Julianus was a member of the great West Roman family, the Anicii, and a refugee from an Italy under Ostrogothic rule.) ‘But what they have created is only a riot, which, by its nature, will soon burn itself out. Before that happens, we must build upon the popular discontent to bring about –'

‘A revolution?' interrupted old Methodius. He sounded horrified. ‘That's not the way we do things in the East, Anicius.'

‘Usurpation by ambitious generals – that was long the curse of the Western Empire,' conceded Julianus. ‘The resulting instability undoubtedly weakened the state, helping to pave the way for the barbarian invasions. But sometimes, for the general good, it becomes necessary to remove a bad emperor. Think of Nero, Caligula, or Commodus.'

‘But those were monstrous tyrants,' objected a councillor. ‘Justinian hardly fits that mould.'

‘Agreed. But what perhaps is worse – the man's obsessive. Preoccupied with grandiose building schemes, and plans to re-conquer the West. Which all costs money – vast amounts of it. But as long as he gets it, he seems oblivious to how it's obtained, and all the misery that's causing.'

‘You have a plan?' This from Maxentius, a landed magnate who had suffered at the hands of John of Cappadocia's
compulsores
.