The Bones of the Earth (The Dark Age)

by Scott Bury

  The leader of the cavalry saluted the Emperor and shouted out a speech in Latin. “He’s praising the Emperor and his wisdom, and thanking him for the opportunity to win glory for Rome in battles against the barbarians,” Flaccus explained, showing off his command of Latin as well as Greek. “They’ve just returned from a successful campaign in Moesia, where they slaughtered barbarians.” Javor involuntarily shuddered at the thought of villages like his own being overrun by those beautiful, gleaming and proud soldiers.

  The company paraded around the stadium, showing the whole crowd the gleaming strength of their armour, the shining ferocity of their weapons. The crowd cheered.

  Finally, it was time for the races. The trumpets blared again and from another gate came four chariots pulled by teams of four horses. The cheering and chanting of the crowd rose past deafening. Javor thought the noise would drive him insane. Behind each chariot was a team of men in matching tunics: blue, red, white, green. The horses’ headdresses and other decorations matched the men.

  The chariot drivers were resplendent in long, flowing robes of many colours—the colour of their teams, red, blue, green or white. They all wore fantastically decorated helmets and gaudy wristbands; one had several heavy gold necklaces. The teams strutted slowly past the Emperor, saluting with their right arms raised shoulder-high, straight out. The trumpets played a final braying note, and the chariots lined up on the sandy track. The drivers removed their decorative helmets and replaced them with smaller, more practical ones; their men bustled about, removing the horses’ decorations.

  A man announced the names of the racers, with long descriptions of their history, where they were born, the families they came from, the races they had won in the past and the names of their horses, but Javor heard almost none of it over all the cheering, chanting and booing. The people with blue scarves or kerchiefs cheered for the blue team, the green-wearing crowds for the green team and so on, and each booed the other teams as loudly as they could. The drivers played to the crowd, raising their arms and bowing, or making what even Javor understood as very rude gestures to various sections of the stadium.

  “Ten on the red!” someone in the row below Javor said. What does that mean? But before he could ask Flaccus, the trumpets blew another note and the drivers gripped their reins firmly. Their men scrambled out of the way and the horses scraped their hooves on the sand, tossing their heads. The chariots moved forward and back as the announcer shouted “Ready! On the line! Teams in check! Annnnd … GO!”

  The crowds screamed like insane demons as the horses leaped forward, jerking their drivers forward and back; some of the chariots even came off the ground a little, and then they were thundering along the sandy track along the wall. Dust rose behind them, and Javor was certain they would all collide with the wall. But after what he thought was the last possible second, they turned and continued around the inside edge of the stadium. The green chariot pulled ahead of the others, the red close behind.

  “Twenty on the green!” screamed someone in the stands. “You got it! And ten on the white to place!” someone else answered. Spectators screamed incoherently as the chariots reached the far end of the stadium and turned precariously again. People stood up to see better, forcing Javor and his friends to copy them. The blue chariot didn’t make it: one wheel rose off the ground as the horses pulled it around the corner. It tipped on its side, pulling the horses down into a pile of tangled legs and reins. A loud groan came from sections all around the stadium and Javor saw a man weeping.

  The three remaining teams made it around the final curve and were all straining to reach the point where they had started. The green chariot was in front, but only barely, the red almost directly beside it, and the white chariot was edging closer. The crowd seemed to be one screaming beast, thousands of voices converging into a single roar. The horses put on one final burst of effort, dust rising high all around them as they passed the finish line. A man on the side of the track furiously waved a red flag and the crowd’s scream changed. Some spectators jumped up and down, others slumped on their benches. In front of Javor, the man who had said “twenty on the green” handed coins to the man next to him, shaking his head.

  Then Javor noticed people all around him exchanging coins. “What’s going on?” he asked Flaccus.

  “They bet on the races,” said Flaccus, and then had to spend five minutes explaining the idea of betting to Javor.

  Another group of chariots and teams came out to the stadium, again wearing red, white, blue or green. Again, the spectators wagered, cheered, chanted and booed, screamed as the horses thundered past, shouted in triumph, groaned as they lost, traded purses. Javor saw that the sizes of the wagers increased with each race.

  Then he noticed a section of the stadium that was fenced off from the rest by waist-high wooden walls; posts at the corners of the fence held up an awning that blocked Javor’s view of part of the race. Under the awning, a small group of very wealthy-looking men and women in long, beautiful robes, all decorated in colourful, thick patterns, sat on thick cushions. Slaves brought them wine in golden cups and delicacies to eat on polished trays. Unlike the crowds around them, they didn’t seem to get very excited at the races; they watched attentively, clapped their hands delicately when a team they favoured won, shook their heads when their favourite lost, politely exchanged purses when they won or lost bets, as if the money didn’t matter. They would sit back on their cushions, sip wine, point at something on the track or in the stands, call to their slaves for more to eat or drink. They smiled and chatted, sipped and nibbled, waved their fingers, laughed delicately. Against all the noise of the stadium, Javor couldn’t hear a sound coming from under the awning. They didn’t raise their voices or their hands, but seemed to conduct their lives with as little effort or passion as they could.

  “Flaccus? I thought you said women did not come to the races,” Javor asked.

  Flaccus shrugged. “Those are some rich people. Maybe some senators and their concubines.”

  Concubines? Javor figured out what the word meant, himself. Tbese Romans really over-complicate sex.

  The behaviour of the rich people fascinated Javor more than the races. He watched as two men in long white robes, trimmed with wide patterns in blue, red and yellow, and partly covered by another garment he would later learn was called a chlamys, debated the races with amused detachment, while young women fed them cakes.

  The women never spoke to the men, but occasionally among themselves. They wore richly-patterned robes and transparent scarves over their heads, and glittering gold jewels around their wrists and hanging from their ears. They laughed almost silently, holding their hands delicately in front of their mouths, they tilted their heads, they took dainty sips of wine. Javor realized that the women never ate anything, and said as much to Flaccus.

  “Oh, no, women never eat in public for fear of getting food on their clothes or fingers,” Flaccus answered. “Especially that kind of woman.”

  One of the women appeared much younger than the others, much younger than the man she attended. She’s the prettiest, too. Beautiful. “Stop staring at her!” Flaccus warned.

  The crowds became more and more excited, rising to their feet at the end of every race. They screamed at the race judges when their favourites lost. The group chants grew louder and angrier as the wagers grew. Winners did little dances as they accepted purses, losers tore their hair and clothing. A group dressed in green started to fight a group in blue. Soldiers waded into the fray and brought heavy clubs down on heads until the fighting stopped, then dragged limp bodies away as the crowds screamed louder than ever.

  Javor noticed movement at the Emperor’s lodge at the far end of the stadium: the Emperor had stood. Soldiers in shining uniforms stood up smartly, picked up their spears, and marched in a formation surrounding the Emperor as he walked the steps, then disappeared into a door in the side of the stadium.

  “The Emperor has a special walk-way to the Imperial Palace that
only he can use,” Flaccus explained.

  The rich men and their concubines took the Emperor’s departure as their cue. As another group of chariots gathered on the sand below, slaves picked up the rich people’s cushions and put wine jugs into wooden crates. A group of soldiers gathered round them—not as glorious as the Emperor’s guard, but big and menacing with clubs in their hands and swords hanging from their belts. They formed a ring around their patrons and as they walked down the steps toward the gate, the soldiers roughly pushed spectators who hadn’t the sense to get out of the way. A number got kicked, and once a soldier raised his club, but he only had to threaten to clear a path. Their slaves carrying cushions and crates followed, pushing through the crowd as best they could.

  “We should leave, too,” Flaccus said. “The crowd is really getting wild.” Getting out wasn’t easy. Two groups, red and green, held a screaming match. Some started shoving. Flaccus led the way along the wall of the stadium. Just outside the gate, a group of bored-looking legionnaires slowly donned their gear, tightened their straps and buckled their swords. A centurion quietly urged them on; they were getting ready to quell the crowd, but it seemed routine.

  The four friends walked as quickly as they could up the broad avenue back to Chalkoprateia. As they went, men and women poured in from the smaller streets, the colonnaded buildings and the tenements. The richer people hurried away from the Hippodrome, many carried on chairs by slaves or in chariots pulled by horses. “It’s going to be a riot!” Flaccus said; Javor derived the word’s meaning from the growing excitement, the sense of hatred and anger that filled the street, the fear of the rich, the old, the very young, the way shopkeepers closed their stalls and pulled heavy shutters across their windows.

  Off the main street, the crowds were smaller. Javor, Flaccus, Sandulf and Ammon were almost at the Abbey when they heard a noise from behind, toward the Hippodrome, then something like thunder. Looking back, they saw a huge crowd of mostly young men running along the avenue they had just left, all wearing blue scarves, all yelling. From the other direction came more young men, dressed in green tunics, all carrying sticks, clubs or tools. The two groups clashed with a shock that Javor could feel. Men fell to the ground, blood spurted. The four novices were transfixed, watching with horror as young men bludgeoned and butchered each other over a chariot race.

  A steady beat came from one side, and mounted soldiers rode slowly and steadily into the midst of the riot, swinging heavy clubs or chains attached to metal rods. They struck indiscriminately, knocking men down, spilling more blood. The rioters tried to run, but were blocked or attacked by other rioters.

  The knights got closer. Some of the rioters fled toward the four novices, and Flaccus took off, running away from them into a tangle of narrow alleys. The others followed. “That’s the wrong way, Flaccus!” Sandulf called, but they followed anyway.

  They ran until they could not run any farther, then flopped onto the ground under a colonnade. “Why did you come this way, Flaccus?” Sandulf puffed. His face was red.

  Flaccus wheezed. Javor thought his friend, who was sickly at the best of times, looked on the point of collapse. His breath shuddered his frame, he hung his head between his knees. When he had regained his breath, he leaned forward and vomited a thin stream between his feet. Gradually, he regained control over his breathing and his face returned to a slightly more normal colour.

  “Because the avenue to the Abbey was full of soldiers,” he panted. He took a few more breaths and then spat to clear his mouth.

  Ammon struggled to his feet, then pulled Sandulf up. Javor helped Flaccus to stand. They stood quietly, listening: the sounds of rioting and of soldiers beating and killing civilians faded. Flaccus staggered a few steps until Javor held him up. Slowly, they made their way through narrow alleys and minor streets toward the Abbey and safety.

  Chapter 28: Fire and glass

  Where are we? The sun had set. There was almost no light except for dim reflections of fires. The noise from the main streets was deafening. The four novices wandered for what felt like hours until they found a broad avenue that none of them recognized. Javor felt his amulet warn him of danger. He turned and almost immediately was confronted by six men in brown tunics with flaring sleeves. Four carried flaming torches, and one had a drawn sword. In the flickering torchlight, Javor could see that they were wearing leather helmets, but their hair hung over their shoulders. They each had a green scarf tied in a triangle around their necks.

  Their leader was big, almost as tall as Javor, and he carried a heavy cudgel. Oh, no.

  “And what are you doing here?” demanded the leader, who had a silver star on his green scarf.

  “Sorry, we’re just kind of lost,” Flaccus whined. “If you could tell us how to get to the Chalkoprateia—”

  “Are you Blue or Green?” he demanded. He raised the cudgel and stepped toward Flaccus.

  “Neither!” Javor protested, stepping between Flaccus and the guard. “We’re novices from the Abbey of St. Mary.”

  The leader turned toward Javor. “Barbarian. Not a Green, for sure,” he sneered.

  “St. Mary’s is an Orthodox church, Stavros,” said one of his companions.

  “You talk like an idiot,” Stavros said, stepping very close to Javor. “So, the Blues are recruiting barbarians, is that it?”

  Javor’s amulet vibrated madly. “We didn’t mean to come here—we were at the Hippodrome, and then this big fight started…” Stavros took another step closer and the amulet vibrated so hard, it was hot.

  Javor heard a whoosh above him and a strange gust blasted them all with dust and grit. At the same time, every bell in every church-tower in Constantinople started ringing. Between the peals, they could hear doors slamming and feet running. Men yelled and horses clattered on the cobblestones. “Stavros!” one of the guards yelled over the din. “It’s the call for general stations!” Javor’s amulet felt like it would catch fire.

  “Wait a minute!” Stavros answered.

  His second-in-command took Stavros’s arm. “Remember our duty, Stavros! We have to report in!”

  Stavros wrenched his arm free and glared at Javor. He raised his arm again, but this time just to point down the street. “That way to the second corner, then turn left, and the Chalkoprateia’s a half-mile away. Now get out of here and don’t come back!” The guards hustled the other way, disappearing into the growing panic.

  Javor felt like he knew the way, and ran down the avenue. His friends followed. All around them, men pulled on their Blue and Green uniforms, strapped on armour, loosened swords and hoisted spears. Women banged doors and shutters closed, screaming for their children. Torches flared alight. Horses clattered down the roads, hauling men and barrels of water. Javor could smell smoke, saw it billow up over the rooftops on his left. A glow: something big was burning. And on his chest, the amulet burned almost as hot.

  “What’s going on?” Javor shouted above the noise. St. Mary’s bell was tolling almost continuously. Along with the silent shrieking of his amulet, he felt like they were going to drive him insane.

  “It’s the general alarm! The city is under attack!” Flaccus shouted at his heels. They banged on the gates of the Abbey of St. Mary and were surprised when Father Peter answered.

  “Let us in, Father, there’s a riot!” Sandulf pleaded.

  Father Peter looked at the four boys with his little smile. Behind him were some of the senior boys. “And what were you boys doing outside today? Where were you during prayers? And Mass?”

  None of the four wanted to say anything. Father Peter just looked at them, smiling, and the monks behind him scowled as the noise from the street got closer and louder.

  “Please, just let us in before we get trampled!” Sandulf whined.

  “Just tell me what you four have been doing all day.”

  Javor had no idea how much trouble they were in, but he didn’t want to be caught in a riot, either. “We just went to see the Hippodrome, Father, and
a riot started, but we had nothing to do with it. We didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Father Peter’s eyebrows went up so high, Javor thought he would lose them. “Nothing wrong?” His voice rose as high as his eyebrows. “Nothing wrong? What about disobeying the Order? What about shirking your chores and responsibilities to your fellow novices and the rest of the Order? And horse-racing, gambling—and I know there are wanton women who attend such activities! How I wish the Emperor would banish these pagan spectacles as the heresy they are! Nothing good comes from horse-racing, and if you boys had been as observant and obedient as you have vowed to be, then you would never have gone near that den of evil, licentiousness and heresy, the Hippodrome!”

  Peter’s face was red. Froth appeared at the corners of his mouth. “You boys get into your cells and stay there until I call you! And no supper today or breakfast tomorrow, either, until we can devise a suitable punishment for you!” The four entered the Abbey just as five men in green tunics chased one in a blue scarf down the street.

  Father Peter smacked Flaccus on the side of the head. “You really ought to know better, Brother Flaccus! What would your family say?”

  “My family was there,” Flaccus muttered, and Father Peter would have hit him, but Javor grabbed his wrist.

  “How dare you?” Father Peter hissed. He wrenched his hand away and would have slapped Javor, but at that moment Javor heard a familiar voice call his name across the yard.

  “Peter! Enough nonsense! Javor, to the armoury immediately!”

  Malleus was crossing the yard, beckoning. What is he doing here? Javor had never seen Malleus outdoors before.

  “Don’t you speak to me that way, Malleus!” Peter shrieked.

  “Shut up, Peter! Javor—we need you, now!”

  Javor ran after Malleus, leaving the rest to stare after him, mouths open.

  Austinus waited at the Armoury’s door. “Javor! The barbarians are at the city walls! Come to the council chamber with me!”