Terror of Constantinople

by Richard Blake

  There was a gleeful letter in code from my partner in the Cornish business. So far as I could tell without the key at hand, all had gone to plan. The tin shipment had been unloaded and sold in Cadiz, then replaced with an equal weight of rubble packed in the same crates, together with a consignment of what was described as Spanish lead. Now overloaded, the ships had gone down with nearly all hands off Malta. The other shareholders not in the know were stuffed.

  I was already richer by a straight three hundred pounds of gold. More would follow. I could now endow that monastery outside Canterbury to produce multiple copies in parchment of the papyrus books I was sending over.

  ‘God be praised!’ said Martin dreamily when I told him about the use of the money. ‘He is surely with you.’

  I looked at him. From his contracted pupils, I could see he’d been at my opium again. Well, if it kept him calm and busy after all the thrills of the past few days, I wasn’t one to comment.

  ‘Aelric,’ said Martin as I threw the last of the correspondence aside, ‘the slaves have approached me to ask if you would honour them with a visit to their quarters for dinner this evening. They are immensely proud of what you did outside the walls. We could combine this with a final dinner for Authari with the slaves. He will take his meals with me in future.’

  Martin steadied himself and gave another of his little coughs. ‘I wish also to say, speaking personally, how grateful I am for what you did. Once again, I owe you my life. This is a debt of which I shall ever be conscious.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Martin,’ I said. I ignored his delicate reminder of the time when I’d freed him instead of racking him to death. ‘Think nothing at all,’ I repeated, now in Celtic. ‘It turns out that we had only to stay put another night and we’d now be swanning about in the Asiatic suburbs with the other freed captives, awaiting the outcome of the struggle between Phocas and Heraclius – safely out of reach of both.

  ‘Theophanes is back in the city under circumstances tending much to his own credit – at least with the Emperor. Authari earned his freedom. All you get is another set of horrid memories and more time in the city. I should apologise to you.’

  I stopped Martin’s protest.

  ‘However,’ I said, ‘the news isn’t all bad.’ I explained that we could now go home.

  It Saint Victorinus had cured him of his bald patch, Martin wouldn’t have rejoiced more. Not even opium could dull that response. When he was calm again, I asked how he and Theophanes had co-ordinated their singing and dancing without prior arrangement.

  ‘I whispered a suggestion to Theophanes,’ he explained, ‘when the Great One looked disinclined to believe your subterfuge. He took it up and elaborated while I merely followed.’

  I made a weak attempt at a joke. ‘Watching the pair of you together,’ I said, ‘anyone would have thought you were old friends rather than distant acquaintances.’

  But the happy outburst was over, and all I got was a cough.

  What I wanted now was to fall into a clean bed, and writhe around with my smooth body in the silk sheets before sleep claimed me. Still, I had my duties to attend to. And a dinner with the slaves might be a jolly affair – all solid food and unwatered wine.

  Before we went down, I gave Martin the official line on our escape. Fortunately, he’d guessed the truth might not be convenient, and had told the slaves to wait for my own account.

  I woke next morning with a sore head from all the wine and beer and those earlier drugs. But I was cheered by the sound of works in the bathhouse. Theophanes had sent over a detachment of his own slaves to get the furnace in working order.

  Better still, an Imperial messenger was shown in as I finished my late breakfast. I was invited as a guest of honour to the races in the Circus the day after next – a Saturday, this – when the intervention of Saint Victorinus would be celebrated in full style.

  ‘Can you look out the red and white?’ I asked Martin once we were alone again. ‘It looks vaguely senatorial, and it sets off my hair. Besides, I want the crowd not to lose sight of me. How about the yellow and red for you?

  ‘Oh, yes – and please do take Authari to the tailor. He can’t follow us about in slave clothes. Take advice, but I fancy him in plain white.’

  Martin looked as displeased as I gradually realised I should have felt at the invitation. The world was coming apart at its seams, and we were being dragged in sudden and irresistible jerks towards its most unstable point. He’d much rather have been packing for Rome.

  I cut the conversation short by dodging into the nursery, where Gutrune was offering Maximin one of her titties. She rocked back and forth with him singing some cradle song that reminded me of Kent. Tears ran down her face and she barely noticed my presence.

  As I walked to the University Library to continue with Epicurus, it was still pleasingly obvious how my status had changed. For the first time, people stopped to greet me in the street. The bubble was suddenly burst. The crowds still separated as they streamed around me, but now it was with an acknowledgement of my presence. I was accepted as a part of the City life.

  One man from the higher classes even got out of his chair and had his slave give me a strip of ivory bearing his name and status. I was invited to call on him at my leisure. I’d given up on carrying my own ivory cards. But there was no need of them now. Everyone seemed to know me. Everyone wanted to be seen taking my hand.

  In the library, too, things were changed.

  ‘Please, Alaric – do come and share our table,’ one of the students called out as I entered the canteen. He was one of the finely dressed young men who’d scattered on my first approach, leaving me with Sergius. Now, they were all mighty welcoming. I was Alaric the Hero for everyone.

  His name was Philip, he told me. Without giving it in so many words, he added that he was from one of the oldest families in the City. His people had migrated from Rome when Constantine was eager for a lick of senatorial polish for his new capital, and they’d been big there ever since.

  What he and his friends were learning at the University was nothing very impressive. They’d memorised some of the standard classics. For the rest, they were reading commentaries and abridgements. However well born, they had to be able to express themselves in the proper Greek of the ancients if they wanted preferment within the Administration.

  We sat chatting well past the time when I’d wanted to be at my desk. Then again, there was so much catching up to do.

  ‘You see,’ one of Philip’s younger friends said when the matter came up, ‘we were told you were ever so busy. We didn’t think it right to disturb you before.’

  I let that pass and accepted an invitation to go hunting the following day. I could borrow a horse and everything, I was assured.

  Still formal, there was an obvious unbending of manner among the staff. Someone had placed a bowl of yellow flowers and a jug of honeyed lime juice on my table.

  I was soon yawning over Plato – you have to read him once, even if he was a prize bore and one of the great corrupters of reason. But I was aware every so often of a warm contentment at the back of my mind.

  Next dawn found me hunting outside the city walls with my new friends. It was Friday the 25th of September. Autumn comes later to Constantinople than to Jarrow, but come it finally does. With the morning mist of autumn still on the ground, we rode far out, through the old suburbs, into the Thracian countryside. My leggings were soon soaked by the dew. My mind was quickened by the now chilly air, my eyes gladdened by the sombre reds and browns of a declining Nature. Though there would still be fine days, summer was definitely over.

  No wild pigs, nor any sight of the Heraclians, whose siege was still mostly a formality.

  As hoped, however, we did crash into a party of barbarians. The Great One and company were long gone but the smell and general mess of their camp were still there to remind us of their coming. By now they must have been at least fifty miles across country towards the Danube. The tide of devastation
that had swept down to lap against the very walls of the City had for the moment receded.

  Some of the Germanics were still about too. We came upon them as they fussed over their booty, trying to cram it into a wagon the wheels of which kept sticking in the mud. I picked up a slight graze to one of my shins from a sword-thrust, and got splashed all over with blood when I dismounted to finish someone off who’d backed me into some bushes. It was a raking blow along the lower belly. He had no armour and I sliced straight through the woollen tunic. He roared like a slaughtered ox as his entrails spooled about him. The dogs were over him in an instant, tearing happily at the dying flesh.

  But the sad bastards weren’t up to much of a fight. Most of them made straight off on horseback, leaving their booty to us. One of my companions managed to trample an old man before he could get to his horse, then broke his neck with a neat downward crunch of the knees. Another of the creatures was cut to death as he tried to stand and fight.

  Authari hacked the left hand off yet another as he tried to pass on horseback. With a howl and a spraying of blood, the man dropped his sword to clutch at the reins. As he rode off, I called Authari back from the pursuit. Though victorious, it made sense to keep together.

  We took no prisoners. The dogs ripped at the bodies till they resembled bloody offal in rags.

  It was another glorious re-entry to the city. The dozen of us rode along Middle Street, waving our bloody swords at the cheering crowds. Slaves dragged the loaded wagon along behind us. Hung round the neck of my borrowed horse was the severed head of my latest victim.

  ‘Hosanna! Hosanna!’ the mob cried rapturously at me. ‘All hail to the New Achilles!’

  Half the booty we gave to the Emperor as a present. There wasn’t much choice in this. The Black Agent who made sure our weapons were stowed away also made it pretty plain what was expected. The clumsy good humour he put on in our presence didn’t for a moment detract from what he represented. The other half we dedicated to Saint Victorinus who had been sighted a hundred times the previous night pacing up and down the walls.

  Then to a tavern, where we celebrated our victory in style. We arranged a night of gambling and whoring in further celebration. But, considering the races next day, we agreed to settle the time by further discussion.

  I was shopping all afternoon. I felt the need for more clothes. Since we were to be off home before long, now might be my last chance. And the cosmetic box I’d thought so fine on my first shopping trip now looked mean and tatty.

  I still had to prove identity with every purchase. But there was still that change in manner that made everything easier and more pleasant. Phocas needed a hero to divert attention from his own failure to do anything about the raid. Theophanes had thrust that role upon me. Now I had added to it. Everyone had seen or heard about my bloody sword and the severed head.

  I was for the moment the ‘Lord Alaric, Champion of the Faith’. Now there were crude images of me alongside the graffiti. In one of these, I held a cross in my left hand while I sliced off an impressive number of barbarian heads with my sword in my right.

  ‘Shall I start packing our own stuff?’ Martin asked eagerly before dinner. He was perking up after an earlier moroseness. ‘I can order the additional crates for after the races. I was down in the harbour earlier. There’s no end of shipping penned in by the siege. I couldn’t get the Captain to speak to me, but one is certainly bound for Rome. If he won’t take us, I’m sure we can get something else going that way.’

  ‘Keep looking for transport,’ I said. ‘But we’ll be here a few days yet. There may be trouble before we leave. Get Authari to arm the other slaves. If things do turn nasty within the City, we’ll bar the gates of the Legation. But he and I need to agree a reserve plan.’

  Martin turned thoughtful again. But I went happily to bed where I dreamed of home and Gretel. I even found time for a vision of the Dispensator’s face when I told him of all that had happened.

  Even Martin would not have denied that things had turned out better than they might have done.

  31

  The Great Circus is about a quarter of a mile from the Legation, and is set amid the main public buildings of the city. To its north is the Great Church. To the west, connected by Middle Street, is the Forum of Constantine and the legal district. To the east is the main Imperial Palace, with which it is joined.

  Indeed, the Imperial Box is a branch of the palace, joining the main structure by a spiral staircase that can be shut off in emergencies. Though called a ‘box’, it is in fact more than a raised viewing platform. It has an audience hall, a dining room, and even a small office for use between races. A staircase leads down to a covered terrace where the Senators and other dignitaries of the Empire sit within sight of the Emperor.

  Seen from the southern, semicircular extremity of the Circus, the Box is on the right-hand side, and sits about two-thirds of the way towards the flattened northern extremity. It is built over the stalls for the horses and chariots and the storehouses for all the machinery of the races and spectacles. Because of the sloping ground, the southern extremity is suspended on massive brick vaults. These ensure a perfect level for the Circus and provide additional accommodation for the officials of the various financial ministries.

  The Circus itself is about six hundred feet long by about three hundred feet wide. The racecourse is divided by a long low wall – the spina – at the ends of which are the points round which the chariots have to turn. At one of these points are seven golden dolphins, at the other seven golden eggs. The normal length of a race is seven circuits, and dolphins and eggs are removed at the appropriate moments to remind spectators how far advanced the races are.

  Between these points are various works of ancient art. At the exact centre of the spina is an Egyptian obelisk of the most incredible antiquity. Someone told me once that this dates from before the Flood. Since no one can read the picture writing that covers the thing, and since there was probably no Flood – where, after all, could the waters come from to cover the whole world? – I take this as one of those fanciful guesses by which people cover their ignorance. But the obelisk must be old.

  I am on firmer ground with other works. For me, the most illustrious of these is the serpentine column of bronze erected in ancient days at Delphi to commemorate the final defeat of the Persians. This came to the city when the Great Constantine ransacked the world for monuments to adorn his new capital. You can read on it the names of the city states that took part in this unquestionably miraculous deliverance.

  Martin and I arrived with Authari soon after dawn, and joined a long queue of chattering citizens dressed in their finest to gain admittance. As we filed in through the Great Entrance, I saw that slaves were stretching canopies high over the seating areas in the Circus to keep off the drizzle that had continued through the night. With successive, rippling cracks that reminded me of the sails on a ship, the slaves had the canopies neatly unfurled. They were stretched from poles set into the perimeter walls, reminding me of the teeth of a comb. The racecourse itself was uncovered, but the retaining cords of the covering connected to each other far above the course. The whole was then steadied with a network of other cords that held it rigid in the shifting winds and kept off both sun and rain.

  We were met inside by Alypius. He led us through the gathering crowds to the semicircular end of the Circus. Our seats were right at the front on the lowest row. On our left, stretching all the way up to the highest row of seats, was a line of armed guards. A few yards before us, blocked by more armed guards, was a staircase leading down to the racecourse.

  From here, we had a fine view of the whole Circus. I noticed the Senators filling up their terrace. On the plainer robes I could make out the bordering flashes of purple. Conspicuous in his black was what I guessed to be the Greek Patriarch. Among the men, I saw a few veiled ladies.

  Most remarkable, however, were the humbler spectators. Around us were seated crowds in no particular style of clothing
. These were the unaffiliated citizens. But on my right – that is, on the side of the Imperial Box – sat the Green Faction. On the other side of the Circus sat the Blue Faction.

  There are, you see, two teams in every race – one blue, one green – and these have their fans among the spectators. These two factions are separately seated because of the riots that often attend races. They have always had some official recognition, their leaders being held responsible to the Urban Prefect. They have their own social life, providing insurance and support for their members. Since the first big siege by the Persians, they have been armed and drilled, and now form part of the regular City defences.

  The Factions flocked together in their accustomed seas of blue and green robes, each facing the other across the racecourse. As the Circus filled up, and the rain left off and the sun began to peep from behind the grey clouds, the unofficial festivities got under way.

  By custom, the first insults traded between the two Factions are generally accusations of heresy or treason, and curses that go back to before the establishment of the Faith. This is the only place left where you can hear public venerations of Isis and Serapis and others of the dethroned Ancient Gods. Often, the phrases used are so old and garbled that most are unaware of the blasphemy.

  Then, as the teams enter and go one lap about the Circus, the abuse becomes more tailored to the alleged faults of the chariot eers. The first team that day to enter was the Green. Through the internal gateway beneath the Imperial Box the team entered to thunderous cheers and groans, the charioteers in green robes, the two horses to each chariot also dressed in green. As they passed by the Green section, the charioteers dismounted and took the plaudits of their faction.

  With neatly trimmed beards and gravely impassive faces, they stood by their chariots – these stripped back to the absolute minimum needed for a riding platform. They stood beneath a shower of rose petals, and were treated to an elaborate choral ode in their honour.