Then someone threw a stone, and things turned ugly. The air was suddenly filled with flying missiles, one of which struck the prefect (who, in order to appear less confontational, had removed his helmet) on the head. Blood pouring from his temple, the prefect staggered, but before he could collapse, was helped down from the platform by two of his men.
‘Enough of this,’ snarled Phocas, to no one in particular. Without waiting to consult his wounded superior, he turned to the helmeted ranks behind him and shouted, ‘Charge!’
Now thirsting for revenge on behalf of their stricken leader, the vigiles advanced behind a wall of shields, and commenced laying into the densely packed mass of people with their batons. Beneath a steady rain of blows from the disciplined ranks of police, the crowds began to waver and fall back — until rallied by demagogues of the Blues and Greens, who urged them to fight back with stones and other improvised weapons. Soon, a pitched battle was raging, with individuals falling on both sides. Then, as the vigiles lost patience and exchanged their clubs for swords, the mob broke up in panic, leaving the Forum strewn with bloody corpses — but not before several of the ringleaders had been identified and rounded up.
‘Bring in the defendants and the witnesses!’ shouted the sergeant-at-arms. Accompanied by guards and ushers, the two respective parties filed into the basilica, the expressions on the faces of the accused variously defiant, terrified, or resigned. The witnesses (their role in this case doubling as accusers) took up their positions to the right of the judge. This was Tribonian, — hastily appointed as quaesitor to investigate the serious breach of public order that had occurred in the Forum of Constantine the previous day. The accused then lined up to Tribonian’s left. A State of Emergency having been proclaimed throughout the city following the riot in the Forum, the prefect, with the emperor’s authority, had decreed that this was to be a summary trial. Niceties like the offices of defensor (whose function was to weigh up evidence from both Defence and Prosecution) and adsessor (a legal expert to advise the defensor on finer points of law) would be dispensed with, and the court barred to the public. Other than the abovementioned, the only other persons in the courtroom were, seated on benches, a selection of the vigiles present at the scene of the disturbance, and Eudaemon the prefect, his head swathed in bandages.
The first accused being called, the man shuffled forward nervously to face the judge.
‘Your name is Peter, a cobbler to trade, of Aphrodisias in Caria?’ enquired Tribonian, his expression benevolent, his tone polite, kindly even.
The man nodded.
‘The charge against you is most serious, Peter: namely that, maliciously, feloniously, and seditiously, you did throw a stone or some such hard and weighty projectile at the Praefectus Urbis, causing it to strike him on the head, to his severe distress and hurt. How plead you to the charge?’
‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that, Your Most Notable!’ cried the man in desperation. ‘I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I–I just got caught up in the crowd and happened to be there when the prefect got hit.’
‘It were him all right, Most Notable,’ affirmed the first witness — one of the dreaded crew of delatores or informers, whose evidence was much called upon in public order cases. ‘I recognize him from that birthmark on his cheek.’
‘Then, Peter, I must find you guilty as charged,’ pronounced Tribonian in a sad voice. ‘As your action seems, on the evidence, to have been contributory to causing a violent affray in which several innocent parties were killed or injured, there can only be one sentence: death by hanging. Remove the prisoner.’
As Peter, white-faced and protesting, was bundled from the courtroom, an usher came up to the judge and whispered in his ear, ‘Next one’s a bigwig in the Blues, Spectabilis. Says the management’ll stump up five hundred solidi on his behalf.’
The next accused was found not guilty, despite two witnesses — one of them a vigil, swearing they had seen and heard him urging on the mob. .
The vast crowd assembled at Blachernae — a suburb of the capital just outside the great Wall of Theodosius where it sloped down towards the Golden Horn — fell silent as the last of those condemned following the riot in the Forum mounted the scaffold. Sweating and nervous, the hangman with trembling fingers tied the nooses round the necks of the ashen-faced damnati. He’d be glad when this particular job was over, the man thought fervently. Usually, the spectators were in a holiday mood at hangings. This time however, the crowd was hostile, roaring its sympathy and disapproval as each of the two previous batches was despatched. He modded to his assistant.
The hangman’s helper pulled away the bolt securing the platform on which the condemned men stood. The trap swung down on its hinges; the three men dropped. One hung suspended, his neck broken by the jerk, but the other two fell to the ground, the nooses having come untied. As they lay wriggling on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs, the crowd roared once more, surging forward in a menacing wave as the executioners, now visibly frightened, made to resume their grim task. Shouts of ‘String them up!’ — directed at the hangmen not their victims, filled the air. At the same time, a party of monks from the nearby monastery of St Conon ran forward, seized the prostrate pair and, protected by a wildly cheering crowd, rushed them to the Church of St Lawrence in the vicinity, where they were granted sanctuary.
The following day — Monday the twelfth of January — as the news spread that one of the men taken to St Lawrence was a Blue, the other a Green, the two Circus factions abandoned their traditional hostility, and joined forces to become the mouthpiece of the mob. Mass demonstrations organized by the Blues-cum-Greens assembled in front of the Praetorium, the Palace, and the Law Courts, shouting for the dismissal of the prefect, of Tribonian, and of John the Cappadocian, as well as for the pardon of the two in St Lawrence.
‘Best they get it out of their systems; by tomorrow they’ll have calmed down,’ Eudaemon said to his Number Two in the Praetorium, raising his voice in order to be heard above the baying of the mob outside. ‘With the opening of the races, they’ll be able to put their grievances directly to the emperor. Justinian’s basically decent and fair-minded. I’m sure he’ll listen to what they have to say, and try to put things right.’
‘Listen to yourself,’ sighed Phocas, shaking his head. ‘There are times, sir, when your faith in human nature is most touching. Unfortunately, things have got beyond the point where appeals to reason will — ’ He broke off, as the shutters over the windows started juddering as a barrage of missiles from outside thumped against them. ‘See what I mean, sir?’ he went on with a sardonic grin. He shrugged. ‘Still, I suppose I could be wrong. Let’s hope I am, for all our sakes. Pray for rain, sir. A solid downpour will disperse a crowd far better than a baton charge.’
But the weather held. Tuesday, the thirteenth day of January — the Ides — dawned crisp and clear. From an early hour, the crowds, noticeably much larger than in previous years, poured into the Hippodrome, filling up the tiers in a close-packed mass, with standing-room only in the topmost row. And something else was different compared to previous occasions: instead of the usual background hum of excited chatter, silence, ominous and oppressive, hung over the scene. Justinian however, seated in the kathisma or royal box, alongside his spokesman, the Mandator, and the city prefect, seemed unaware of any tension in the atmosphere.