This, by the way, comes from Oedipus the King, and is part of the long opening cry of the Chorus for salvation from the curse that is destroying Thebes. Bearing in mind how circuitously both Thebes and Constantinople were saved, these lines had a new irony that I don’t think was lost on the crowd.
And they saved Phocas.
As the recital ended, the crowd sat back and broke out into a chatter of mutual compliments on how educated everyone was. The embarrassment wasn’t forgotten. There might yet be another crisis but for the moment the tension was broken. The stormclouds had wafted away on a gust of hot breath and pedantic self-praise.
I saw Theophanes turn to the herald.
The herald stood forward again. ‘O Most Excellent and Erudite People of the City,’ he cried, ‘we have suffered grievously from the barbarians.’
He quoted further from Oedipus:
Our city reeks with the smoke of burning incense,
Rings with cries for the Healer and wailing for the dead.
‘Be it known that our Lord Phocas is aware of duplicity upon duplicity that brought the dark host of barbarism to our gates, more savage than the Assyrians that of old did smite the Children of Israel. And be it known that he will, when evidence clear enough for all to agree shall be available, make the authors of this duplicity answer for their crimes.’
A clever touch, this. Direct accusations against Heraclius from the Emperor would have done much to check the progress of the rumours put into circulation. A delicate allusion, on the other hand, could do much to hasten their progress.
Phocas was not yet out of trouble. But the prospect of wild rioting was for the moment in retreat.
There was a ripple of muttering sweeping back through the Green Faction from its leaders. This was followed by a burst of chanting – taken up by the Blues – this time about the disappearance of olive oil.
The herald made the emollient reply that bread and wine remained plentiful.
This was answered by the Blues with a complaint about the low quality of the grain in the public warehouses.
So the conversation continued a while. As said, proceedings in the Circus follow a ritual not unlike that in church. The crowd expresses itself in phrases and whole sentences that can be adapted to any purpose – you need only hear the first few words to take up the rest. The herald responds in the same fashion, demonstrating both the strength of his lungs and his ability to turn the monosyllabic whispers of the Emperor or his Ministers into persuasive responses.
That the people had now been persuaded into one of these conversations meant that the crisis was past.
The herald changed the subject. ‘For the moment,’ he cried, ‘let those who did abandon our loved ones, even as they prayed beyond the walls at the Most Holy Shrine of Saint Victorinus, be subject to the Divine Justice of our Lord and Master, Phocas, Most Holy Ruler of the Universe.’
At this, the gate beneath the Imperial Box opened again. Through it now came a troop of the Palace Guard, dressed in their finest uniforms of red and silver. Their hollow square enclosed seven men, stripped naked and tightly bound. The captives looked desperately round the immense, silent crowd, jerking at the chains that held them together.
‘Behold the malefactors and authors of our woe, dear and cultivated people of the City,’ the herald continued. ‘Behold these woeful seven, chosen by lot from those whose duty it was to stand and fight in defence of our loved ones, but whose inclination was to flee for the safety of the gates. Let them now suffer the punishment of cowardice.’
The administration of the Circus is nothing if not professional. It can bring on and set up a display with wondrous speed. It can clear the wreckage and bodies of a racing accident almost before the cheers are ended.
Now slaves brought out seven great bronze vessels. Each was about four feet deep and three across. Covered with a domed iron cage, each stood on three legs about three feet off the ground. The slaves set these at points about the racecourse so that each was no more than a hundred yards from the spectators. Under them the slaves heaped piles of faggots and charcoal.
As the chains holding the prisoners together were unlocked, and each was dragged towards one of the vessels, the men let out a terrified wail. Lamentations and pleas for mercy mingled with sounds of pure animal fear. One fell down on the packed sand and, still tightly bound, tried to wriggle like a worm back towards the now closed gate. But he might as well have tried to hold back the progress of the seasons. He was dragged to his fate, leaving a trail of excrement behind him. A slave followed behind, thoughtfully cleaning the mess away.
The domed cages swung open on their hinges and each prisoner was put into one of the vessels. Then the cages were locked down.
Even before pitchers of water were rushed in for filling the vessels, I knew what was coming. My hunting companions of the previous day pushed their way down to the front and stood beside me. One stretched himself over the barrier to get as close as possible to the domed vessel placed at the apex of the Circus bend. He was pulled back by one of the guards and made to stand at the same distance as everyone else.
Apart from the continuous horrified wailing of the prisoners, silence descended over the Circus. The upper rows were now deserted. The front rows were blocked with a scrimmage of people who, in their bright robes, reminded me of the surf on Dover Beach where, of a late summer evening, the white is mingled with blue and red and green.
Not a man so much as coughed as the kindling was set alight.
To narrate the full detail of these executions would be artistically wearisome. It is enough to say that, if you are boiled alive slowly enough from cold, you cook before you die, and you remain conscious well into the cooking.
But this wasn’t the end of the proceedings. As the last body splashed silent into the bubbling waters, the herald spoke again.
‘Be it ever such with those who dare betray the Sacred Trust of Our Gracious Lord Phocas, anointed with the Holy Oil of our Blessed Mother Church. Let oblivion be their lot in this world, and eternal perdition in the next.’
And now the crowd was back to the expected responses. With the thundering fervour of these words, I could feel the general mood brightening. The people still weren’t happy with Phocas. His alleged bungling of the barbarian raid was a cover for all the other grievances against him. But everyone seemed to agree that he had done well to make an example of those guards. It had been their duty to stand and fight. If they had done that, they might even have driven the savages off. There was no doubt they had some punishment coming.
And the Circus crowd in Constantinople does enjoy a good public execution. For all his other derelictions, Phocas certainly knew how to jolly the Circus along in that respect. A few years earlier, he’d had one of his best generals burned to death in the Circus. That hadn’t gone down well with the armies of the East, which had downed weapons in protest, but it had delighted the crowd.
The herald still wasn’t finished. I saw Theophanes raise one of his arms. I felt Alypius touch me from behind.
‘Get ready,’ he whispered. ‘They need you sooner than expected. When I push you, get up and go down to the racecourse. Walk slowly across to the Imperial Box. Go to Caesar. Don’t stop, whatever happens. Don’t speak to anyone but Caesar, and wait till he speaks to you. Do you understand?’
‘But’ – the herald’s voice now took on a brighter tone – ‘let us now behold how graciously Caesar receives those who in his service have acquitted themselves nobly.’
I felt a pressure on my lower back.
‘Go,’ Alypius hissed. ‘Remember what I told you.’
As I stood up, Martin reached for my hand. His was cold and trembling. ‘Go with God,’ he said in Latin.