‘How’s the head?’ he enquired solicitously of Eudaemon, whose cranium was still swathed in bandages.
‘Still throbs a bit, Serenity, but improving by the day. My medicus assures me there’s no permanent damage.’ He went on in anxious tones, ‘Serenity — if I may presume to suggest, the sooner we get the races started the better. I don’t like the mood of the crowd.’
‘Really? The fact that they seem unusually quiet suggests to me they know they’ve gone too far, and are feeling chastened and contrite.’ He smiled at Eudaemon and patted his arm reassuringly. ‘I bow, however, to your judgement.’ Summoning one of the attendants on duty below the kathisma, he told the man, ‘Tell the editor* to hurry things along.’
Shortly afterwards, the man returned with a message: the editor would forego the usual perquisite of staging a procession, and let the races start immediately. A trumpet sounded, and from the open end of the stadium’s vast U shot the competing chariots, extremely light affairs with wide tyres for extra grip, each drawn by four horses, the inner pair yoked to the pole, the outer held on traces. As the vehicles flashed around the Spina — the long central barrier — it became immediately obvious, from their continued silence, that for once, the crowd had not come here for entertainment, but to confront the emperor. At the end of the first race, the two Demarchs — the official spokesmen for the Greens and Blues — addressed Justinian.
‘Thrice August One, knowing that you are just and merciful, we beg you to pardon the two damnati who have sought sanctuary in the Church of St Lawrence.’ Their tone, though respectful, held a hint of steel, suggesting they would not be satisfied until they had an answer — one moreover that acceded to their request (or rather, their politely framed demand).
While the Demarchs waited for a reply, Justinian whispered to Eudaemon, ‘Are the criminals securely held? We wouldn’t want a gang of vigilantes springing them from the church.’
‘Absolutely, Serenity,’ replied the prefect. ‘I’ve posted armed guards around St Lawrence. No one can get in or out. However, I do think it might be wise to do as the Demarchs ask. That would defuse the situation, and we’d still be seen to be acting from a position of strength.’
‘Certainly not,’ declared the emperor, sotto voce. ‘I’m surprised at you, Eudaemon. By letting the two men off, we’d appear weak, not strong. If we give in to pressure over this, the plebs will stage a riot every time they imagine they’ve a grievance.’ He turned to the Mandator. ‘Say nothing,’ he instructed.
The racing continued, the Demarchs, with mounting insistence, repeating their demand at the end of every race, only to be ignored. The silence of the spectators gradually gave way to an ominous low buzz of anger and frustration. Even a spectacular crash (known as a naufragia or ‘shipwreck’) failed to move the crowd.
Closely followed by a rival chariot, the leading vehicle, a Blue, had just rounded the end of the Spina for the seventh and last time, to hurtle down the final straight. But the pursuing Green, coming up on the inside, rapidly eroding the other’s lead drew level three hundred paces from the finish. Then the Blue, in a supremely daring move, swerved his chariot in beside the Green, hooked his right-hand wheel inside the other’s left then suddenly swung his team out, wrenching the wheel clean off. The Green’s axle bit the ground, causing the whole equipage to somersault and smash against the Spina in a tangle of flailing hooves, splintering wood, and whipping traces. The wretched driver, unable in time to draw his knife and cut the traces (tied around his waist for extra leverage on the turns), died, mangled in the wreckage. Normally, such an event would have elicited a collective gasp of fascinated horror from the spectators. This time however, preoccupied by the duel between Demarchs and Mandator, they remained indifferent.
The final race of the day, the twenty-second, ended without the emperor breaking his silence. The Demarchs, abandoning their appeals to spare the fugitives, suddenly began to shout, ‘Long live the humane Greens and Blues!’ — an unprecedented show of co-operation, clearly evidence of a pre-arranged plan. Again and again, the cry was repeated, the Hippodrome erupting into a deafening uproar as the crowd joined in. Suddenly, a new, and chilling, watchword rose above the din: ‘Nika! — Conquer.’ This was incitement to revolt; as if animated by a single mind, the crowd, chanting its new-found war cry, ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’, began streaming from the Hippodrome, intent on forcing the authorities to answer its demands.
Bewildered, Justinian turned to the prefect. ‘Eudaemon — what’s happening?’
‘Their patience has finally snapped, Serenity. I did try to warn you. No telling what they’ll do in the mood they’re in now. You must return at once to the Palace; meanwhile, I’ll go to the Praetorium and try to stall things. What shall I say to them?’
Dismayed and alarmed by the course events were taking, Justinian hesitated. Then he remembered: had he not received assurance he was God’s Appointed? As his actions were determined by Jehovah’s Will, surely then he need not fear their consequences? With confidence flooding back, he answered Eudaemon’s query, ‘Why — tell them nothing, of course.’
‘But Serenity!’
‘Courage, friend. We mustn’t waver now. If we stand firm, the people will be made to realize there’s nothing to be gained by violence or noisy demonstration.’
The pair descended the spiral staircase behind the kathisma to the short passage connecting the Palace to the Hippodrome. While Justinian summoned the courtiers and Palace Guard, the prefect, shaking his head in despair, set out for the nearby Praetorium. He was met by a dishevelled Phocas heading towards him from that building.
‘Get back, sir!’ shouted the optio. ‘There’s nothing you can do. The mob’s broken into the Praetorium, freed the prisoners from the cells, and killed any vigiles who tried to stop them. I barely escaped with my own life. Look — they’ve set fire to the place!’ And he pointed back to where lurid flames were shooting up against the evening sky.
The two men retreated to the Palace — not a moment too soon, as it transpired. Hardly had they been admitted via a postern gate than the mob, satisfied that the Praetorium was well ablaze, surged into the Augusteum — the great square before the Palace — shouting for the prefect and the emperor to appear. Their demands being met by silence, the mob — chanting, ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’ — vented its frustration by setting fire to the Chalke.
With the gatehouse an inferno, its great bronze doors reduced to pools of molten metal, the rampaging crowds, intoxicated by their own unpunished daring, moved on to fresh targets. ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’ Soon the huge church of Hagia Sophia was engulfed in flames, followed by the Senate House. ‘Nika! Nika! Nika!’ At last, after setting fire to some public buildings on the Mese, the mob dispersed in the small hours, sated with violence and tired out by the day’s excitement.
Meanwhile, the Guards — more decorative than belligerent — instead of confronting the attackers had remained inside the Palace, preferring discretion to valour.
Within their private suite, God’s Appointed, his earlier confidence now badly shaken, cried out to the empress, ‘God has abandoned me, Theodora! The people turn against me; the Guards’ loyalty is suspect; I feel I cannot trust the courtiers and senators within the Palace! If I am still His Chosen One, then why is all this happening?’