At last, however, the teams began to move towards the far end of the racecourse and the shouting diminished in volume. There was a flurry of movement on the Senatorial Terrace. Everyone there was on his feet and facing away from the racecourse, looking up. Even the Patriarch was standing.
On each side of the Imperial Box above them, seven men in golden robes had appeared. They stood looking around and waiting for reasonable silence. Then they raised their golden trumpets. A peal of bright sound rang out across the Circus.
There was silence.
A herald stood forward in the Imperial Box. He raised his arms to maintain the silence.
‘We unite’, he cried in a slow, clear voice that reached to the topmost rows behind me, pausing at each phrase to draw breath, ‘in greeting our Lord and Master, the Most Holy and Orthodox and Ever-Victorious Flavius Phocas – Caesar Augustus, Autocrator, Dominus et Imperator, appointed by God Almighty Himself, Ruler of the Universe.’
32
I’d seen representations of Phocas any number of times. There was a crude image of his face on all the coins. There was an icon of him in every public building throughout the Empire. And, of course, there was the golden statue of him atop its column in Rome. His presence was evident in all things.
Although I’d been living in his shadow ever since my arrival in the City, this was the first time I’d seen the Emperor in person. At a distance of three hundred yards, I can’t say I was able to make out that much of him. It was a small, dumpy figure who shuffled into view at the front of the Imperial Box. Dressed in shimmering purple, a band of gold on his dark head, he stood with set features to receive the acclamations of the Senators and of the whole crowd.
On the Terrace below him, the Senators stretched out as one in the formal prostration, or Adoration of His Majesty. The Patriarch, of course, was exempt from the full prostration, but he bowed low before the Living Symbol of Divine and Earthly Power that was currently Phocas. The rest of us stood with bowed heads in reverent silence. Far off, on the racecourse below the Imperial Box, a choir was singing praises of Christ and the Virgin. As we raised our heads again, the Patriarch was getting ready to bless the teams.
At last, with an elaborate sign of the Cross that could be seen from every point of the Circus, the Emperor took his seat far above us. There, he sat as dignified and impassive as a painted statue.
Another blast of the trumpets, and the herald stood forward again. ‘To God the Father and Son’, he cried, ‘be Glory in the Highest.’
‘Be Glory and Honour ever in the Highest,’ came the response of the whole Circus.
The herald: ‘And to the Empire, be victory and glory on all frontiers.’
The crowd: ‘Victory and glory on all frontiers.’
And so the litany continued. Peace and plenty in all the Provinces. Plague and famine to be banished from the earth. Solidity to the foundation of the Churches. Anathema to the variously described heresies. Anathema to the Great King of the Persians and his heathen armies, and to all the barbarians who had violated the frontiers of the Empire. And so on and so forth as if in some huge service in church.
Then from the herald: ‘And to Heraclius, renegade Exarch of Africa, and to Heraclius, the usurping son, anathema and oblivion.’
Silence throughout the main Circus. On the Senatorial Terrace, hard under the watchful Eye of Power, the response sounded in grim unison. From the rest of the Circus came a scattering of shouts that died at the realisation of its own thinness of volume. From all other places there was a tense and ominous silence, as of a landscape that darkens under gathering stormclouds.
The herald looked round. Though I couldn’t make out his features, I could sense the consternation from the movements of his body. Then I saw Theophanes step forward beside him. Dressed with a splendour that eclipsed all previous appearances I’d seen, his face shining with white lead and gold leaf, he began a rapid conversation with the herald. Their voices didn’t carry outside the Box. But I could tell from their furtive glances that their conversation involved Phocas, who continued looking stead ily forward at no one in particular.
It was obvious they were in a bind about how to continue. The litany should have culminated in a long set of praises of the Emperor but if these went ahead, there was every chance of humiliation from the crowd. They had expected at least one of the Factions to take up the responses but instead they were facing a citizenry united in hostility. It might even provoke rioting that, given the siege, could be fanned into revolution.
But dropping the culmination risked hardly worse. I saw Theophanes look up at the sky. The clouds were lifting to leave the day cool but bright – ideal rioting weather. Perhaps he was thinking of his deal with Heraclius – whatever that might be.
You see, there’s nothing much to be done when people are gathered together in the Circus. Whereas, as individuals, they can be terrorised into obedience, together in the Circus they can make their feelings known with impunity. An Emperor secure on his throne can set the army on the crowd. There’s nothing like an indiscriminate massacre for restoring order.
But Phocas wasn’t at all secure. I never could make out why the races had been allowed to go ahead in these circumstances. I suppose it was in the hope that a pretence of normality would bring on its reality. They had begun badly and might easily turn catastrophic.
Then came salvation. Instead of waiting for events to move in their direction as inexorably as water runs down a gully, whoever was behind all this tried hurrying them forward. Someone in the Blue Faction began reciting from a chorus of Sophocles. It opened with the lines:
Wasted thus by death on death
All our city perisheth.
Corpses spread infection round;
None to tend or mourn is found.
One voice became two, and then a dozen, and then hundreds. Almost at once, in a rolling blaze of sound that united all parts of the Circus beyond the Senatorial Terrace, the words continued to their conclusion:
Golden child of Zeus, O hear
Let thine angel face appear!
There is no public theatre in Constantinople. Even so, the old plays do get a regular airing in the Circus. They’re put on in afternoon sessions during the hot summer months, when it’s too hot for racing, or there are no executions left over from the morning.
This, by the way, comes from Oedipus the King, and is part of the long opening cry of the Chorus for salvation from the curse that is destroying Thebes. Bearing in mind how circuitously both Thebes and Constantinople were saved, these lines had a new irony that I don’t think was lost on the crowd.
And they saved Phocas.
As the recital ended, the crowd sat back and broke out into a chatter of mutual compliments on how educated everyone was. The embarrassment wasn’t forgotten. There might yet be another crisis but for the moment the tension was broken. The stormclouds had wafted away on a gust of hot breath and pedantic self-praise.
I saw Theophanes turn to the herald.
The herald stood forward again. ‘O Most Excellent and Erudite People of the City,’ he cried, ‘we have suffered grievously from the barbarians.’
He quoted further from Oedipus:
Our city reeks with the smoke of burning incense,
Rings with cries for the Healer and wailing for the dead.
‘Be it known that our Lord Phocas is aware of duplicity upon duplicity that brought the dark host of barbarism to our gates, more savage than the Assyrians that of old did smite the Children of Israel. And be it known that he will, when evidence clear enough for all to agree shall be available, make the authors of this duplicity answer for their crimes.’
A clever touch, this. Direct accusations against Heraclius from the Emperor would have done much to check the progress of the rumours put into circulation. A delicate allusion, on the other hand, could do much to hasten their progress.
Phocas was not yet out of trouble. But the prospect of wild rioting was for the moment in retreat.
There was a ripple of muttering sweeping back through the Green Faction from its leaders. This was followed by a burst of chanting – taken up by the Blues – this time about the disappearance of olive oil.
The herald made the emollient reply that bread and wine remained plentiful.
This was answered by the Blues with a complaint about the low quality of the grain in the public warehouses.
So the conversation continued a while. As said, proceedings in the Circus follow a ritual not unlike that in church. The crowd expresses itself in phrases and whole sentences that can be adapted to any purpose – you need only hear the first few words to take up the rest. The herald responds in the same fashion, demonstrating both the strength of his lungs and his ability to turn the monosyllabic whispers of the Emperor or his Ministers into persuasive responses.
That the people had now been persuaded into one of these conversations meant that the crisis was past.
The herald changed the subject. ‘For the moment,’ he cried, ‘let those who did abandon our loved ones, even as they prayed beyond the walls at the Most Holy Shrine of Saint Victorinus, be subject to the Divine Justice of our Lord and Master, Phocas, Most Holy Ruler of the Universe.’
At this, the gate beneath the Imperial Box opened again. Through it now came a troop of the Palace Guard, dressed in their finest uniforms of red and silver. Their hollow square enclosed seven men, stripped naked and 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.
His Empire might be confined to the City. The Persians and barbarians and Heraclius might be dividing the rest among themselves. But Phocas was Emperor in the only place that mattered. The barbarians could be bribed eventually into leaving. The Persians could be expected eventually to suffer some reverse. And Heraclius was stuck in Abydos, short of cash – his forces outside the City in the rain waiting for the first whiff of pestilence.
Phocas, on the other hand, was still in Constantinople, still holding court in the Circus.
Standing there beside him was not, perhaps, the safest place to be. But I was going home soon. This would be the culminating point of my stay in the city and would serve me well in the wine shops of Rome so long as I could remember any anecdotes at all.
The Terror of Constantinople a-2 Page 22