by Alan Gordon
The crowd filled the stadium to the brink. The course inspectors bustled about the track, making sure no stray stones were present to trip up either human or equine competitors. The Guard took up positions all around the stadium, and soon several dozen heralds ran across, standing ready to take their signals. Claudius and I pushed our way to the side of the pen facing the Kathisma, keeping our eyes to the right of it, while our fellow performers craned their necks, looking for signs of the Emperor’s arrival.
There was a flourish of drums, and the heralds began to scream at the spectators: “Rise, O senators, and render praise to the Emperor! Rise, O soldiers, and render praise to the Emperor! Rise, O citizens, and render praise to the Emperor!”
The great golden curtains that cloaked the Kathisma from the common view were pulled to the sides and secured. Then there was more drumming, and a score of trumpeters took their place on the roof of the building. They breathed as one, and the fanfare split the heavens.
Claudius stood with her gaze fixed on the spectacle, her hands clenching the top of the barrier. I leaned over and whispered into her ear, “It’s showtime.”
TEN
It is a vigorous blow to vices to expose them to public laughter.
MOLIÈRE, PREFACE TO TARTUFFE
Emperors don’t have to walk if they don’t want to. Six burly guards carried Alexios to the second level of the Kathisma on a litter with a throne affixed to it. They lowered it carefully, and he stood to the cheers of the crowd, stepping slowly to the front, though not so close that one of his men could succumb to the temptation of shoving him over the edge. He was clad sumptuously in purple robes and red buskins, a crown double the size of Euphrosyne’s weighing down his head. His beard was suspiciously black for a man with three grown daughters.
I saw all of this out of the corner of my eye. I was focused on the section to the right, where the Imperial officeholders were standing, trying to peer around the edge of the royal box to glimpse their ruler.
A small wisp of dirty smoke rose by one of them. I nudged Claudius, and we followed it down to where a corpulent, bald man in blue robes was looking around irritatedly. He motioned to his guards, who were crawling about the tiers. One of them stood, pointing down. They all gathered around and looked at the source of the smoke. Then one of them left and returned with a bucket of water. He poured it on the offending embers, and the smoke stopped. They all nodded, satisfied, as if they had accomplished something important.
“Our preacher may have gotten himself baptized again,” I murmured. “But we may have our man. Nice work, old fellow.”
The horses, riders, and charioteers gathered for a grand promenade around the stadium, saluting the Emperor as they passed. He had some visiting ambassadors from somewhere seated behind him, and by his side a sullen, young boy, the relative whose birthday was the ostensible reason for the games today.
“Where’s the Empress?” wondered Claudius.
“A woman at the Hippodrome?” I gasped, scandalized. “That would be completely improper. The only women you’ll ever see here will be either entertainers or courtesans. Why, a proper woman appearing here would be giving her husband grounds for divorce.”
“It’s a good thing I’m an entertainer,” she said softly. She glanced around, taking in a hundred thousand faces. “I hope they like me.”
“You’ll be fine,” I assured her.
The horses for the first race lined up at the starting gate. A man I assumed to be the Eparch rode onto the course. He trotted in front of the Kathisma. He was a nervous rider, was this Constantine Tornikes, and he was sweating profusely under the morning sun. The horse sensed his unease and kept skittering sideways.
There was a fair amount of booing from the factions. Someone yelled, “It’s Constantine Turn-and-flee!” and the crowd laughed derisively as the Eparch looked angrily over his shoulder.
He held up a large, white napkin that fluttered in the breeze. There was another fanfare. He looked up at the Emperor, who by this time was reclining on the throne, his legs up on cushions. He was being massaged by a dark-skinned beauty. The Egyptian, I guessed.
The Emperor motioned to the Eparch, who turned and faced the riders. There was a brief drumming, then silence. The crowd collectively craned their necks to see the napkin. He let it fall and galloped out of the way.
The gates opened simultaneously, thanks to the usual Byzantine mechanical genius in the service of leisure activities. The horses charged the turning post at the front of the euripos, then veered to the left and dashed past the Kathisma, the Imperial office-holders, and the Senate. They took the Great Turn, the riders leaning sideways to the right, and shot past the factions who were cheering wildly.
The first race was four laps of dodging around barriers, and as the riders passed our pen on the final turn, the various entertainers began gathering at the gate in preparation for their performances.
“We’ll start by the end in front of the common folk,” I instructed Claudius. “Then we’ll work our way around the stadium during each lull between races. Have fun.”
The winner, a favorite of the Greens, was led before the Emperor, while that faction celebrated across the stadium. A team of acrobats quickly sprang into action, jumping onto each other’s shoulders and off again, spinning like madmen, and finishing in a human pyramid. The Emperor barely paid any attention.
Meanwhile, Claudius and I were doing well with the cheap seats. We timed our routine perfectly, scooped up our coins, and dashed back to the pen. And so continued the morning.
What I heard later on was that the Emperor noticed the laughter from the first performance, but we were too far away for him to see us clearly. After the second race, while a team of the city’s young men took on a collection of foreigners in footraces, the laughter came from the Blues. The Emperor looked again, but was blocked by the euripos. Nevertheless, his curiosity was piqued to the point that he wondered out loud what was so amusing. Several of his servants scrambled to find out.
We returned to the pens and quenched our thirst at a water barrel someone had thoughtfully provided for the entertainers. The slaves were setting up the barriers for the next race, a steeplechase. This one produced the first casualties of the day, a pileup of five horses and riders at the Great Turn. The horses screamed in agony, one rider was carried off on a stretcher, and the crowd roared and continued to wager on the outcome.
The next between-race contest was among representatives of the different companies of guards, racing in full armor three times around the track. Several of them collapsed in the heat, clattering as they fell to the scorn of the soldiers watching from the tiers. We played to the Greens, improvising some delayed reactions as the soldiers dashed behind us. The coins flew, and there was actual cheering when we were done. This was the performance that the Emperor’s servants watched.
I was touching up my makeup during the next steeplechase when I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned to see a slave beckoning to me.
“You are summoned to perform before the Emperor after the animals are done,” he informed me.
I bowed in assent, and he left.
“We did it!” crowed Claudius.
“God, I hate following animals,” I said. “I hope they clean up after them.”
The last morning race was run. We played to the Great Turn. I noticed Samuel watching from the ramp to the stables. Then the parade of the animals began.
Any ambassador wishing to curry favor with the Byzantine Empire knows enough to bring an animal as a gift, the more exotic, the better. These were kept in the Imperial Menageries, mostly in the Great Palace, but were brought out to amuse and placate the populace during the games.
There were elephants, bears, enormous gray wolves from Russia, and a pair of giant creatures with long, brown-spotted necks that soared high above us. Then came the gazelles, a great, glowering rhinoceros, crocodiles writhing in huge, wheeled tubs. After that, the caged cats—the panthers, the leopards, and the lion w
e had met earlier—pacing behind wooden slats that looked much too flimsy.
“I suppose if one got out and ate a person, that would be part of the fun,” commented Claudius as we began wheeling our cart toward the Kathisma.
“Depending on whom he ate, yes,” I said. “Looks like the Eparch would be the people’s choice.”
There was a sudden rise in the roaring and growling.
“Look,” I pointed out. “The bear won.”
“Poor little lion,” she said.
She set up before the Kathisma, wheeling the cart with its load of bricks, dressed like a laborer. She bowed low, then wiped the sweat off her brow with an exaggerated motion. She pulled a long loaf of bread out and made as if to eat it.
Along comes a Fool, the very picture of avoiding work. But he eyes the bread and rubs his stomach. A quandary: how does he get bread without actually doing anything to earn it? He thinks, pounding on his head. Then—an idea! He sneaks around behind the laborer, taps him on the right shoulder from behind. The laborer looks that way, but the Fool has already danced to the left and broken off the tip of the loaf. By the time the slowwitted worker has turned back to the front, he’s short some bread, and the Fool is cramming it into his mouth, hiding behind the cart.
The poor Everyman looks about haplessly, shrugs, and starts again. The Fool does the same trick in reverse, tapping the left shoulder and going right after purloining another piece. The worker, realizing something is up, does a slow burn. Then he waits, feigning a lack of vigilance.
The Fool, having grown overconfident with his success, barely even attempts to conceal himself on his next try. He taps the right shoulder. The worker fakes right, then whirls to the left and whops the Fool solidly with the loaf.
Which hurt like hell when we rehearsed it at the Rooster. They make good, solid, crusty bread in this city, and Claudius hadn’t quite mastered pulling the blow just short of my nose. But this time, she was perfect. I saw a blur of bread, and rocked back into a series of bizarre tumbles, ending in a headstand. The crowd roared.
Oh, the Fool has been caught! He begs, he pleads, he shows his desperation. He indicates that he would do anything to avoid prison, even—gasp!—work. All indicated by dumb show, of course, in the space of a few seconds.
The Everyman relents and dumps the bricks onto the ground. He indicates to the Fool that he should follow his lead. He takes a brick, places it in front of him. The Fool does likewise. The laborer puts a second brick next to the first. The Fool, a little more confident, does the same. Say, this is easy, he thinks. The smugness returns.
Then the laborer, who does this for a living, speeds up, his hands a whirlwind, stacking them quickly. The Fool cannot sustain the pace. He is frantic. His section of the wall becomes a tumbledown affair as every brick he puts on it falls. Soon, he is sneaking glances at the impassive laborer to his left, and stealing bricks from the latter’s part of the wall to even the score. Then, he is caught again.
Consternation! There is no more room for redemption. The laborer, not a patient man, takes a brick and throws it at the Fool.
Who catches it. And then another. And then another.
Brick juggling has its own technique. Oh, you can flip bricks through the air like you would clubs or balls, but that’s just basic stuff. The interesting way of doing it is to take three bricks and press the middle one between the two outer ones so that they make a straight line. Then you start switching them in midair while keeping the illusion of the line intact. It’s not easy.
Especially when you bring in a fourth brick, and then a fifth. By this time, you don’t have to pretend to be in a panic; it comes naturally with what you’re attempting to do. And just when I was about to drop them all, in came Claudius to grab one and steady the pattern.
We held for a moment, facing each other in front of the Kathisma. Then she brought a sixth brick into the line, and we had four hands going, our arms shooting in and out of each other’s way as if we were a human loom.
We finished by tossing all of the bricks into the air. I caught the first two and held them together, and she quickly grabbed the rest and stacked them neatly on top of my base pair. Then she started stacking more and more, while I looked increasingly exhausted.
The stacking wasn’t a random pattern, of course. It allowed me to stagger around while maintaining this crazy tower. Then I tilted the bricks in a peculiar way, and they tumbled into a more stable structure. In fact, it was now a section of wall, identical to the one she had built on the ground. I placed my section next to it, and snatched the last piece of bread from the cart in triumph.
There was thunderous applause from the Kathisma and the nearby sections. Even the musicians were clapping, which is a rarity.
I glanced over at Claudius and said, “Well done!” Her eyes were shining as she looked up at our audience. We bowed and quickly piled our bricks back onto the cart.
A purse came flying down from the upper level of the Kathisma. I caught it and then fell backward under the impact, provoking more laughter from the crowd. I looked directly at the Emperor, who was guffawing merrily. He waved to me, and I waved back and bowed again.
We rolled our cart back to our pen and relaxed.
“Anything to eat?” asked Claudius mischievously.
I pulled the sections of bread out of my pouch and handed them over. I had eaten only a small portion during the act. With so many repeat performances, if I actually ate the loaf, I would have been too heavy to move by the time we finished.
Claudius added some cheese and nuts from her pouch, and we had ourselves a nice repast there in the middle of the Hippodrome while the chariots careened around us.
The slave who had summoned us before dashed across the course after the first race was over.
“The Emperor wishes you to perform at Blachernae Palace tomorrow afternoon,” he said excitedly. Then he bent down and whispered, “You are about to become a wealthy pair of fools. Guard yourselves well.”
He dashed back.
“We’re in,” I said, clapping her on the back. “All right, two more times and we’ve done the circuit.”
“Wait,” she said, pointing up. “It’s the flying man.”
A man walked before the Kathisma wearing the most outlandish costume I had ever seen, and I’m accustomed to motley. His tunic was covered with all manner of feathers, and he was carrying a pair of giant wings, larger even than those of the bronze eagle soaring over us.
“My Lord, Emperor Alexios, long may you thrive,” he shouted. “I am here to show you a marvel. I have spent ten years studying the creatures of the air, and have discovered their innermost secrets. Now, I have used this knowledge to devise wings for man. With this, you shall rise above any Emperor who has ever lived. Your armies shall conquer beyond any wall, any moat, any mountain. Nothing shall stand in your way.”
Alexios kept a straight face throughout, and motioned to the fellow to proceed. The moment the man turned away from the Kathisma, the entire Imperial retinue began crowding to the front, wagering heavily.
“Are there actually those among them betting he will succeed?” marveled Claudius.
“No,” I said. “I think they’re only betting on how far he’ll land from the column.”
The poor, deluded fellow scaled the Column of Constantine Porphyrogenitos, then hauled the wings up after him. He slipped his arms into them, and flapped experimentally a few times. Then he looked around and froze.
I wanted to shout for him to come down, but the crowd was shouting for him to make the attempt. All we could do was watch and see if the fear of shame would conquer the fear of death.
It did. He spread his wings and leapt straight out. For a moment, he sustained the illusion. The crowd held its breath, and the Hippodrome was silent. The silence was broken by a solitary scream, which was in turn broken by a sickening thud.
“Looks like he got about thirty paces,” commented a guard standing nearby. “I don’t think that breaks the record.
”
“You owe me dinner,” said another.
There was laughter all about, especially from the Kathisma, as the slaves went to remove the poor fellow’s corpse from the track. Claudius looked at me.
“They laughed at us, and they laughed at him,” she said. “Makes me feel less proud of what we did.”
“It could have been worse,” I said.
“How?”
“We could have followed him.”
The rest of the day was anticlimactic. We did our last two performances and packed up, shaking hands with the gymnasts and acrobats. It was a profitable day all around, and we were in a buoyant mood despite the one fatality. The flier wasn’t one of us, so his death did not weigh down our spirits overmuch. All in a day’s work at the Hippodrome.
Samuel was waiting to collect his fee, but did not press us for an exact accounting.
“Come back anytime,” he said. “We will all profit.”
“Thank you,” I said.
As we left the stables, we were hailed by a man waiting outside. He was in his forties, I would say, of medium height and build. He still had all of his hair and a humorous cast to his eyes. He was wearing a light blue tunic under dark blue robes marked with an insignia that I didn’t know.
“Congratulations on your performance, my good fools,” he said. “I would like to buy you a drink if you have the time.”
“If it was the end of the world, I would still have time for a drink,” I replied. “Lead on, noble sir.”
He took us through a maze of side streets to a small tavern near the Venetian quarter. He ordered a pitcher of wine and a bowl heaped with shellfish, and we dug in.
“May we have the honor of knowing who is buying us dinner?” I asked.
“Forgive me,” he said, and then he seemed to puff up with self-importance. “I am Niketas Choniates. I am a Senator and the Logothete of the Sekreta.”