by Mary Reed
Two boys, perhaps six and seven, whom John took to be part of the man’s family, sat in a corner and goggled up at their visitor.
“I’m not here to quibble over your payment,” John said. “I wish to interview you about the hanging. Kindly ask your children to leave us. It isn’t the sort of thing they should hear.”
The man looked surprised. “They’re always asking to hear that story about the poor fellow’s head again. But if you insist.” He shooed them into the other room.
The rooms were part of a stolid apartment building north of the Mese, halfway down the steep hill which descended toward the long finger of water known as the Golden Horn. Furnishings were the usual wooden tables and chairs and a brazier for heat and cooking. One of the ubiquitous Christian crosses hung from the wall. The confined space smelled strongly of garlic from a recent meal.
“I understand you are called Kosmas.”
“That is correct, excellency.”
“From your speech I can tell you are not from the city. What brought you to Constantinople?”
Kosmas’ mild expression darkened. “Taxes. We owned a farm in Anatolia. Raised livestock. Pigs mostly. A few mules and horses. For four generations we were landowners, until, finally, we couldn’t pay. So I brought my wife and children to the city and looked for work. That was three years ago.”
“You found employment as an executioner?”
“Most of the time I work for a butcher. I’m paid a decent wage and can bring home some meat as well. Executions aren’t steady work. They bring in extra money. One day I might be able to own a small farm again. I miss the open fields. The noise the beggars make in the alley keeps us awake most nights.”
“How does a farmer and a butcher come to hang criminals?”
“I performed executions in Anatolia. Even in the countryside there’s occasionally someone who needs hanging and not many with the required expertise. Once a village witnesses a condemned man slowly strangled because the knot wasn’t placed right….well…I took it up as a civic service. I was well known in the area.”
“You may have spared a lot of curious children nightmares,” John observed, with a stern glance toward the doorway to the other room. He glimpsed two heads vanishing from sight. “You were summoned on short notice to carry out the executions by Prefect Eudaemon?”
“Yes. He is familiar with my work. There have been quite a number of calls on my service of late. As a good Christian I can only deplore that, but as a family man with children and a wife to feed…you understand, I am certain.”
John responded with a thin smile. In fact, he did not understand Christians at all. Was Kosmas attracted to Christianity because it was the official religion or because its most sacred symbol was a man being executed? “Describe what happened,” he ordered.
Kosmas paused in concentration. In his memory he must have been seeing a picture of that cold morning. “The prisoners were ferried over from the city. Seven of them. Four were beheaded. A quick death, excellency. Much kinder than hanging. Not a task I like to carry out. But duties must be met however distasteful. Think of how those in charge of crucifixions must have felt! It’s one thing to give a quick downstroke of a sharp axe and deprive a man of his life, but quite another to hammer nails into living flesh. I have never been ordered to crucify a man, but if I was I would make it less painful. Even when I slaughtered livestock I tried to be quick about it. We should never have been given so little time to prepare.”
“Indeed. Continue with your account.”
“Oh…yes….” Kosmas lifted a hand nervously, and John thought he intended to touch his neck in recollected sympathy with the condemned men, but instead he rubbed the shoulder that was lower than the other. “I apologize, excellency. It is a strange thing. I tend not to recall executions. I think it is a blessing the Lord has granted me.”
Was that true or a convenient excuse, John wondered. “Tell me as much as you can, Kosmas.”
“The first hanging succeeded. I’m not sure what faction he belonged to, but that left a Blue and a Green. Both factions, you see. The emperor wished to show even handed justice. Or so I was told. We had managed to erect two gallows on the platform and cut a pair of openings in the planks. The prisoners arrived before we could complete the trapdoors, though, so I had to push the men into the openings.” Kosmas shook his head. “I hope never to have to do that again. It feels too much like murder. There are accepted procedures. That isn’t one of them.”
“You gave both men a shove before you realized anything had gone wrong?”
“That’s right. I wasn’t looking toward the ground. The first I knew about the mishap was when I heard the spectators’ reaction. There are always a few screams from gawkers who expected death to be prettier, but this time it was an uproar.”
“Is it true that both ropes broke? Not once but twice?”
“Yes. The fibers partially tore and stretched. Both men ended up on the ground, half strangled and dazed. But not so dazed that they didn’t understand what was happening when the guards carted them back up to the platform.”
“Did you recognize either of the men?”
“No. I have seldom needed to execute a man I know, thank the Lord.”
“You were alone on the platform, aside from the guards?”
Kosmas nodded.
“So it was a defect in the ropes which saved the men’s lives?”
“It was definitely the ropes. Everything else was in order. The gallows were strong enough. The height of the platform was correct. Neither man had an abnormal physique. Sometimes I need to make special adjustments. A man as lean as you would need to fall further than most, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”
“A longer journey but without any better destination. Didn’t you notice the ropes were unsuitable before you used them?”
“Of course. But there was no time to find anything better. Even a poor rope is almost always good enough.”
“Could they have been cut part way through?”
Panic flickered across Kosmas’ features. “You don’t think I had anything—”
“Where did they come from?”
“I’m not sure. Some men from the Prefect’s office, or maybe men hired by him, delivered everything we needed. All the construction material, the axes and ropes. I don’t supply the rope, excellency.”
“Would you have noticed if the rope had been cut?”
“I should think so. I inspect them, to make certain they’re strong enough.”
“Are you positive no one else had access to the ropes after they came into your possession?”
“Yes. I took charge of all the equipment at once. The ropes were simply rotten, excellency. No more than that. The second set was as bad as the first. I directed a couple of workmen to attach new ropes to the gallows while the Blue and the Green lay on the platform, crying for mercy. Or so it seemed. Their throats were too swollen for them to speak comprehensibly. They couldn’t stand. The guards had to haul them to their feet to let me loop the nooses around their necks. I never want to witness such a thing again. One of the guards found it all amusing. He asked why the condemned were whimpering since they’d already been hung once and it hadn’t been so bad. I only recalled that just now.” Kosmas shook his head. “As I adjusted the nooses I whispered a few words of comfort. Christ is with you, I told them. You may not see Him, but soon you will. The guards had to shove them forward, to their deaths, except, as you know, the ropes failed a second time. This time, just as the men were about to be dragged back up on the platform, monks from Saint Conon’s monastery appeared and claimed them. Because clearly they had been spared by the Lord, the monks said.”
“What do you think?”
“None of us can know the ways of the Lord. Maybe it was a miracle. If I was a gambling man I would have wagered against two hangings both failing twice.”
John thought that more than a few disgruntled Christians might consider it a div
ine comment on Justinian’s justice. “No one tried to stop the monks from rescuing the condemned men? How did they manage to reach the scaffold?”
“The crowd was getting unruly. People had pushed their way forward. There was some confusion.”
“So much confusion that the guards couldn’t do their job?”
“Guards are Christians too, excellency. They were not sent to slaughter monks.”
“Do you suppose someone could have been bribed to insure that the execution went wrong?”
“In this city, bribery is always a possibility. We hung the first man without incident.”
“Why didn’t you use his rope to hang the other two? His didn’t break.”
“I admit, it never occurred to me, with all the commotion. I suggest you talk to Rusticus the physician. He may have noticed something I have forgotten. He examined the ropes after they broke, too. He’s old—some say decrepit—but then he’s the Prefect’s uncle. He was there to certify the men as dead. There have been cases of men who were hung, who appeared dead to casual observers, but when examined an hour later were still alive.”
“That must be even rarer than ropes breaking.”
“That is so, excellency, but I speak from personal knowledge. As a child I was playing in the stables. I liked to crawl around the rafters and dive into piles of hay. I got tangled up with some reins that were dangling from the rafters on a hook. I don’t know how long I hung there. When my father found me I was nearly dead. Luckily, I hadn’t got myself suspended entirely by my neck. I broke my shoulder too, as you can see. I’m told they got me breathing again by dosing me with vinegar and mustard seed. It’s been said that those who survive near strangulation often have strange visions. They have set one foot over the threshold to Heaven, you see. But I’ve never had that benefit, only pain in my shoulder.”
John couldn’t help thinking that each time Kosmas picked up a cup of wine, or reached down to pat the head of one of his children, whenever the weather turned damp, every time the shoulder pained him, he would be reminded of his own hanging. He asked a few more questions, until he was satisfied the executioner had told him everything he remembered, or everything he was going to reveal.
As he stepped out into the hall there was a shriek. The two boys barreled out of the room to which they had been banished and started rolling around by their father’s legs. Both had belts fastened around their necks.
John closed the door.
Chapter Eleven
As John approached the Hippodrome on his way back to the palace he pondered what to do next. Should he walk up the Mese to the Praetorium in case Urban Prefect Eudaemon had returned? Or should he, after all, risk revealing his investigation to the charioteer Porphyrius who might also be able to tell him who the dead men were?
The towering wall of the stadium which dominated this part of the city had been visible to him above the roof tops and through gaps in the buildings for a long time as he came down the side street. When he arrived at the Mese he saw people clustered near the Hippodrome’s entrance. There were a number of faction members, judging by the elaborate clothes and hair styles, but also a few young men who had the look of charioteers or soldiers, along with a handful of clerks.
John crossed the Mese to take a closer look. A ragged cheer ran through the small crowd.
He accosted a fellow whose tunic boasted enormous billowing sleeves with tight cuffs. “What is this gathering about?”
“We’re wagering on the races.”
“The race track is inside,” John said. “And I don’t see any horses.”
“There’s a wagering machine.” The man flapped a wing-like sleeve in the direction of a cart on which sat what at first glance looked like an elaborately carved plinth.
When John reached the cart he saw that the peculiar object was only a solid block on three sides, which were covered with bas reliefs depicting a race. A charioteer whipped his team around the turning posts and accepted a palm after his victory while a lady looked on from a window. The back of the device—or perhaps it was intended as the front, the thing being turned sideways on the cart—consisted of a complicated series of crisscrossing, descending ramps, punctuated by holes.
A man distinguished by a huge potbelly and a cloak striped with blue, green, white, and red, stood beside the machine, exhorting the spectators. “Who’ll be next to pit his skill against the demon driver Fortuna? Better than the races! All the thrills, none of the manure!”
A young fellow with the leg wrappings and muscular arms of a charioteer stepped up onto the back of the cart. He exchanged words with the hawker beside the machine, handed him a coin and received four balls colored blue, green, red, and white respectively. The colors of the traditional factions.
He grinned and raised his fist. Several men in front—friends no doubt—shouted encouragement. Then he dropped the balls into a hole at the top corner of the machine.
Sunlight flashed on them as they began to roll down the first of the inclined ramps. The green ball vanished into one hole, the white into another. The green emerged on a lower ramp. So did the red, which John had not been following. It was impossible to track the progression of the balls as they dropped, reappeared, traded places. The red ball shot out of the hole in the bottom corner of the device, into the hand of the hawker.
“Your green team has been passed at the finish line, my friend.” The hawker shoved the coin he had been holding into the pouch hanging from his belt. “A good effort though. I liked the way you cut off Porphyrius at the second turn.”
The men in front laughed. The loser did his best to smile. He probably felt like having the drink which he no longer could afford.
“Red again,” came a voice from beside John. He turned his head. Shock washed over him. He was looking into the face of the Blue he had pulled from the cistern.
No, it was simply another Blue, with the same partly shaved head and braid of hair.
“The Reds seem to be winning most of time,” the Blue said. “I think things are rigged in their favor.”
“Maybe it’s just time they made a comeback,” put in a stocky fellow with sawdust on his tunic.
A short, slight man with the pale skin of a clerk from one of the imperial offices, shook his head. “Can’t you see it’s rigged? Why do you suppose the villain has a whole tray of those colored balls? Whichever team’s wagered on, he selects the balls accordingly. Some are heavier or lighter. Some are misshapen.”
The Blue rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It could be. Nothing’s fair in this city, is it?”
“No one would wager on finding fairness in Constantinople,” agreed the stocky man. “Look at those two poor fellows the emperor’s imprisoned at Saint Laurentius. I’m told he had them hung—and twice—because someone in their group made a disparaging comment about that actress he’s married to.”
“Justinian wouldn’t do such a thing,” said the Blue.
“I thought everyone was demanding the release of those unfortunates,” John said. “Particularly the factions. Don’t tell me you support Justinian, after what he’s done to us all?”
“We’re not all against the emperor,” the Blue replied. “Why would we be? He’s supported us for years. I’m sure he’ll be setting those men free.”
“You don’t think those two are still alive, do you?” sneered the clerk. “People can demand that Justinian release them but even the emperor can’t release anyone from the afterlife. I have it on good authority that he had their throats slit the moment they arrived at the church.”
“Sounds like something Theodora would order, behind the emperor’s back,” remarked the Blue.
A cheer went up from the spectators as another race of colored balls concluded.
When the noise died down John said, “I’m told one of the man was Gaius.” He picked the name out of the air.
The Blue seemed to actually see him for the first time and his gaze grew cold. “I have no ide
a who the prisoners are. Not friends of mine, certainly.” He quickly moved away.
Turning, John saw that the clerk had vanished when he wasn’t looking. He regretted now having worn the heavy, luxurious cloak that probably identified him as someone closely associated with the palace, someone to whom it might not be wise to say too much.
Nevertheless he wandered through the assembly, listening, trying to strike up conversations, turning the subject always to the condemned men. He learned nothing. Even a laborer in a threadbare tunic, exultant over having just won three week’s wages, turned sober when John tried to question him. Whatever their profession or station in life, all residents of the capital were highly suspicious and skilled at self-preservation.
Someone laughed. John saw it was Junius, the young charioteer he had spoken with inside the Hippodrome.
“I warned you that no one knows the emperor’s enemies, even if they do sympathize with them,” said Junius.
“You seem to have been prophetic,” John admitted. “Maybe you should try your luck at the game.”
“It doesn’t take a prophet to realize no one is going to risk being suspected of having any connection to men the emperor has seen fit to hang. You might have better success questioning beggars. Charioteers will never tell you anything. Not even if you pay them.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Suppose you offer me a bit of gold in return for information. Not that I have any information. If I take it I’m wagering that the emperor won’t have me dragged to the dungeons. Now if I were a beggar living on the street, with no future and no hope, it might be different. I might take the chance. But as it is, it would be stupid. Look at Porphyrius. He’s grown rich from racing. Most charioteers won’t, but still, we might. We wager we’ll win a prize every time we take to the track. That’s dangerous too, but not as dangerous as wagering on Justinian’s actions.”