room, got up abruptly and walked out.
Anastasia sat down on the narrow cot against one wall with Stasie on her lap, and dissolved into tears herself. It was too much. She had tried to hold it all together, but it was too much. She was so tired. And now Peter was probably angry, as he had every right to be. He did his best, he was good to them all. It wasn’t his fault that his salary was not enough. He gave it all to her. He was loving and faithful and he was devoted to her.
But he would never understand that this very devotion was hard for her to bear, that it was burdensome. Theodora in her fury had said things that Anastasia also felt: He did take up too much space. He was too big, too loud, too demanding; his very devotion, his humility, his unqualified adoration made demands on her patience and on her ability to respond. She was too old for him, she thought. He should have had a much younger woman who had not yet borne children and who had strength and desire to match his. She couldn’t. She felt used up. Hot tears dripped into Stasie’s hair.
She knew he had been hurt. Perhaps he would never come back. If he didn’t, that would mean the end for them. Yet she understood Theodora’s sorrow and anger. It was as if Acasius had been wiped out. Removed not only in body but in memory. She had done the only thing she could think of to keep them together, but it had been so sudden that none of them had had time to grieve. Now it seemed that all the tears that they had held in check needed to overflow.
Clinging to each other, the small family of Acasius mourned their loss.
First interlude: The Nika revolt continues, 14 January, AD 532
Narses the eunuch: his journal
In the year of Our Lord 532, January 14
Today is Wednesday, the day after the ides of January, and chariot races are usually run. This morning, after a night of respite, those of us sheltering in the palace were hopeful that the riot was dying out like the smouldering embers of the previous day’s conflagration.
Justinian had probably not slept much; he seldom sleeps more than a few hours at the best of times, which this is not. Yet his round cheeks still had a healthy blush, like those of a robust peasant, which is of course exactly what he is – or was, before he took the purple. He summoned me early.
“Narses,” he said, “I intend to appear in the Kathisma. I will speak to my people. Can you guarantee the loyalty of the Imperial Guard? Will they protect my back?”
“For certain, Despotes,” I assured him. “The excubitors will be at their posts.”
Even in so tense a situation he allowed himself a wry smile. He has himself borne the sword of an excubitor, and he knows as well as I do that the other classes of guards are mostly ornamental. “I won’t expect any of the Scholarian or Domestic Guards to sully their elegant uniforms,” he said.
“Despotes,” said General Belisarius, “my men are quartered in the palace barracks. At any time, they are ready to go forth.”
“As are my Heruls,” added General Mundus.
“I am aware of that,” Justinian said. “I know I can count on that support. But I believe further bloodshed can be averted, if we can keep our heads.”
“What do you intend to do, Despotes?” Mundus looked impatient, Belisarius doubtful.
“I must talk to my people,” Justinian reiterated.
He should have spoken before, I thought, but did not say. I feared it was too late. But the Emperor was adamant. He called for the Grand Chamberlain, who controls the races and who looked considerably the worse for wear. The Emperor announced: “The races will go on.”
“But Despotes,” exclaimed the man, almost breathless with anxiety, “that cannot be wise! The mob, Despotes, has turned into a … a veritable dragon. Belching flames. Such a mob has a mind of its own, I have seen it before, and truly it is to be feared!”
“The mob has calmed down,” said Justinian, possibly with more assurance than he really felt. “It is extremely important that normal routine should be preserved, and that we should exhibit firm resolve and belief in customary procedures.”
So the word went out that the races were to be resumed. Justinian strode along the corridors, leading a doubtful entourage, and accompanied by Theodora, who refused to remain behind in safety.
Justinian took up his position in the Kathisma. A man not without courage, one must give him that. I had the royal party well protected, as unobtrusively as possible, and positioned myself at the shoulder of the Emperor.
But it was the riot, not the races, that took off again. The dragon gathered its strength and lumbered, roaring, to the Baths of Zeuxippus, where it blasted the elegant building with its fiery breath. The pillared marble venue, together with its magnificent collection of ancient sculptures – another symbol of power and privilege – went up like an enormous torch.
“Narses,” said Justinian, “if this rampage continues, what else will they destroy? This must stop!” His frown was fierce as he watched the irate mob pouring into the Hippodrome.
For certain they were in no mood for sport. In fact, so many people piled into the Hippodrome that racing would have been extremely dangerous. In the pen beneath the Kathisma the horses neighed, probably frightened by the acrid smell of fire and trails of smoke carried overhead by the strong wind. Clearly the chariots would not tear around the track on this fateful day; even on the spina people were standing ten deep. High above their heads the sun struck flames from the bronze highlights on the Serpentine Column, atop which the ferocious heads of the three intertwined snakes seemed to be grinning in mockery.
The demarchs of the Blues and Greens addressed the Emperor as they had done before, but their tone had changed from the formally respectful to the peremptory. They stood shoulder to shoulder, emphasising their unprecedented cooperation, and stated their demands in turn. From my position close to the Emperor, I could see the two men clearly: the Blue tall, broad-shouldered, sporting the partisan shaved forehead, long back hair, full beard, Hunnish trousers, billowing sleeves and short cloak; the Green shorter, stocky, garbed more conventionally in a long tunic that bared his muscular arms. The Blue had an authoritative, carrying voice, the Green more of a deep rumble; both could be clearly heard.
“Despotes,” said the Blue demarch, and I detected a note of scorn in what is normally an appellation of the highest respect, “Despotes, the two fugitives in the church must be set free. Immediately.”
“And given full pardon,” added the Green demarch. “God has been merciful. The Emperor can be no less.”
Justinian stood, rather than sitting as he usually did in the Kathisma. He leaned forward and murmured to his official spokesman, the mandator.
“Very well,” the Mandator responded. “We hear you. Your petition is granted.”
A roar went up. But if Justinian had thought that this would be the end of it, he was mistaken.
“Furthermore, Despotes,” the Blue continued, “the people demand the summary dismissal of those officials who are not worthy of the positions they hold.”
More cheers rang from thousands of throats.
“Eudaemon, Prefect of this city,” the Green said, in his deep voice. Enthusiastic applause.
“Tribonian,
