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.