Jester Leaps In: A Medieval Mystery (16 page)

The entertainers’ pen was by the Egyptian Obelisk, brought in triumph by Theodosios himself nearly a thousand years ago. Near it was the Serpent Column, part of the tripod from the Oracle of Delphi, its carved serpents so lifelike you’d swear you could hear them hiss. At the other end was the Column of Constantine Pophyrogenitos, a giant pile of masonry sheathed in bronze that caught the sun and tossed it around the stadium like a plaything.

In between these rivals to Babel were the statues depicting
animals of nature and of nightmare, and humans of history and of myth. All bronze, they were all fighting for attention so that the observer would become dizzy as his eye was captured by one, then another. Of all these statues, my favorite was the giant Heracles by the legendary Lysippos. Rather than choosing a standard heroic pose, Lysippos sculpted the half-god without weapons, weary from the imposition of impossible labors, yet unbeaten. His refusal to bow before adversity had made him a favorite whipping boy of the Empress, yet even she had yet to conquer him.

“What happened to the nose of that poor boar?” asked Claudius as we set up our cart inside the pen.

There was a massive bronze boar facing down a lion. Its snout had been sheared away.

“Euphrosyne,” said a young man limbering up with a group of acrobats, and that was all the explanation anyone needed.

“We have time for a walk,” I said, and we ventured up the tiers of the Sphendone, the great curved end, to the colonnade that ran along the top of the stadium. More statues surrounded us, and we had a splendid view of the city, indeed, of the entire world beyond it. The Hagia Sophia loomed ahead of us, and we could see all the way across the straits to Chrysopolis.

“The Kathisma is that two-story building in the center of the south side,” I explained. “The Emperor and his retinue sit in the second story. Most of the imperial staff sit to the right, and the senators sit to the right of them. That’s where we have to watch when the fanfare is sounded. On the north side are the two great factions, the Blues and the Greens. That’s where the trouble can come from. They each have their favorites in the races, and will use any small excuse to start a fight. That’s why we’re only doing physical comedy in here. No politics.”

“But won’t there be soldiers keeping the peace?” she asked.

“You’d better believe it. Several centuries ago, there was a riot that started right in that section. They say that the army ended up massacring thirty thousand people inside this pretty little stadium. Those drains must have run blood for weeks afterward.”

“How horrible,” she said.

We walked down to a sculpture of some long-forgotten charioteer.

“The races start down at the other end where the gates are,” I said.

“Under that sculpture of the four horses?”

“Yes. Make sure you’re well to the center of our pen before they start. If we’re caught outside, just get to the euripos and climb up one of those statues.”

“How will we know when they’re going to race?”

“Listen to the fanfares. And do you see that bronze eagle there, the one with the snake in its claws? Look at the underside of its wings.”

She looked at the sculpture, which was mounted so that it soared high over the rest. The wings had a series of lines scored on the bottom.

“Those will mark the hour according to the sun,” I said.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed.

We made our way back to our pen and began our preparations. I watched the gymnasts contort with no small amount of envy, but as we joined them in our stretches, I found that my leg was proving remarkably cooperative. On an impulse, I crouched, then did a standing backflip.

“Not bad, old man!” called one of the youths.

“Well?” I said, looking at Claudius.

She looked back impassively, then duplicated the trick.

“Well?” she said. I grinned.

The gates opened, and the Imperial Guard marched in, followed
by members of the Emperor’s administration and the Senate. Next came the two factions, waving flags of their respective colors and shouting clever things like “Green! Green!” or “Blue! Blue!” I was glad that purple was reserved for the crown, as the extra syllable might have been too much for these idiots to handle.

The crowd filled the stadium to the brink. The course inspectors bustled about the track, making sure no stray stones were present to trip up either human or equine competitors. The Guard took up positions all around the stadium, and soon several dozen heralds ran across, standing ready to take their signals. Claudius and I pushed our way to the side of the pen facing the Kathisma, keeping our eyes to the right of it, while our fellow performers craned their necks, looking for signs of the Emperor’s arrival.

There was a flourish of drums, and the heralds began to scream at the spectators: “Rise, O senators, and render praise to the Emperor! Rise, O soldiers, and render praise to the Emperor! Rise, O citizens, and render praise to the Emperor!”

The great golden curtains that cloaked the Kathisma from the common view were pulled to the sides and secured. Then there was more drumming, and a score of trumpeters took their place on the roof of the building. They breathed as one, and the fanfare split the heavens.

Claudius stood with her gaze fixed on the spectacle, her hands clenching the top of the barrier. I leaned over and whispered into her ear, “It’s showtime.”

It is a vigorous blow to vices to expose them to public laughter
.

MOLIÈRE, PREFACE TO
TARTUFFE

E
mperors don’t have to walk if they don’t want to. Six burly guards carried Alexios to the second level of the Kathisma on a litter with a throne affixed to it. They lowered it carefully, and he stood to the cheers of the crowd, stepping slowly to the front, though not so close that one of his men could succumb to the temptation of shoving him over the edge. He was clad sumptuously in purple robes and red buskins, a crown double the size of Euphrosyne’s weighing down his head. His beard was suspiciously black for a man with three grown daughters.

I saw all of this out of the corner of my eye. I was focused on the section to the right, where the Imperial officeholders were standing, trying to peer around the edge of the royal box to glimpse their ruler.

A small wisp of dirty smoke rose by one of them. I nudged Claudius, and we followed it down to where a corpulent, bald man in blue robes was looking around irritatedly. He motioned to his guards, who were crawling about the tiers. One of them stood, pointing down. They all gathered around and looked at the source of the smoke. Then one of them left and returned with a bucket of water. He poured it on the offending embers,
and the smoke stopped. They all nodded, satisfied, as if they had accomplished something important.

“Our preacher may have gotten himself baptized again,” I murmured. “But we may have our man. Nice work, old fellow.”

The horses, riders, and charioteers gathered for a grand promenade around the stadium, saluting the Emperor as they passed. He had some visiting ambassadors from somewhere seated behind him, and by his side a sullen, young boy, the relative whose birthday was the ostensible reason for the games today.

“Where’s the Empress?” wondered Claudius.

“A woman at the Hippodrome?” I gasped, scandalized. “That would be completely improper. The only women you’ll ever see here will be either entertainers or courtesans. Why, a proper woman appearing here would be giving her husband grounds for divorce.”

“It’s a good thing I’m an entertainer,” she said softly. She glanced around, taking in a hundred thousand faces. “I hope they like me.”

“You’ll be fine,” I assured her.

The horses for the first race lined up at the starting gate. A man I assumed to be the Eparch rode onto the course. He trotted in front of the Kathisma. He was a nervous rider, was this Constantine Tornikes, and he was sweating profusely under the morning sun. The horse sensed his unease and kept skittering sideways.

There was a fair amount of booing from the factions. Someone yelled, “It’s Constantine Turn-and-flee!” and the crowd laughed derisively as the Eparch looked angrily over his shoulder.

He held up a large, white napkin that fluttered in the breeze. There was another fanfare. He looked up at the Emperor, who by this time was reclining on the throne, his legs up on cushions. He was being massaged by a dark-skinned beauty. The Egyptian, I guessed.

The Emperor motioned to the Eparch, who turned and faced the riders. There was a brief drumming, then silence. The crowd collectively craned their necks to see the napkin. He let it fall and galloped out of the way.

The gates opened simultaneously, thanks to the usual Byzantine mechanical genius in the service of leisure activities. The horses charged the turning post at the front of the euripos, then veered to the left and dashed past the Kathisma, the Imperial office-holders, and the Senate. They took the Great Turn, the riders leaning sideways to the right, and shot past the factions who were cheering wildly.

The first race was four laps of dodging around barriers, and as the riders passed our pen on the final turn, the various entertainers began gathering at the gate in preparation for their performances.

“We’ll start by the end in front of the common folk,” I instructed Claudius. “Then we’ll work our way around the stadium during each lull between races. Have fun.”

The winner, a favorite of the Greens, was led before the Emperor, while that faction celebrated across the stadium. A team of acrobats quickly sprang into action, jumping onto each other’s shoulders and off again, spinning like madmen, and finishing in a human pyramid. The Emperor barely paid any attention.

Meanwhile, Claudius and I were doing well with the cheap seats. We timed our routine perfectly, scooped up our coins, and dashed back to the pen. And so continued the morning.

What I heard later on was that the Emperor noticed the laughter from the first performance, but we were too far away for him to see us clearly. After the second race, while a team of the city’s young men took on a collection of foreigners in footraces, the laughter came from the Blues. The Emperor looked again, but was blocked by the euripos. Nevertheless, his curiosity was piqued
to the point that he wondered out loud what was so amusing. Several of his servants scrambled to find out.

We returned to the pens and quenched our thirst at a water barrel someone had thoughtfully provided for the entertainers. The slaves were setting up the barriers for the next race, a steeplechase. This one produced the first casualties of the day, a pileup of five horses and riders at the Great Turn. The horses screamed in agony, one rider was carried off on a stretcher, and the crowd roared and continued to wager on the outcome.

The next between-race contest was among representatives of the different companies of guards, racing in full armor three times around the track. Several of them collapsed in the heat, clattering as they fell to the scorn of the soldiers watching from the tiers. We played to the Greens, improvising some delayed reactions as the soldiers dashed behind us. The coins flew, and there was actual cheering when we were done. This was the performance that the Emperor’s servants watched.

I was touching up my makeup during the next steeplechase when I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned to see a slave beckoning to me.

“You are summoned to perform before the Emperor after the animals are done,” he informed me.

I bowed in assent, and he left.

“We did it!” crowed Claudius.

“God, I hate following animals,” I said. “I hope they clean up after them.”

The last morning race was run. We played to the Great Turn. I noticed Samuel watching from the ramp to the stables. Then the parade of the animals began.

Any ambassador wishing to curry favor with the Byzantine Empire knows enough to bring an animal as a gift, the more exotic, the better. These were kept in the Imperial Menageries,
mostly in the Great Palace, but were brought out to amuse and placate the populace during the games.

There were elephants, bears, enormous gray wolves from Russia, and a pair of giant creatures with long, brown-spotted necks that soared high above us. Then came the gazelles, a great, glowering rhinoceros, crocodiles writhing in huge, wheeled tubs. After that, the caged cats—the panthers, the leopards, and the lion we had met earlier—pacing behind wooden slats that looked much too flimsy.

“I suppose if one got out and ate a person, that would be part of the fun,” commented Claudius as we began wheeling our cart toward the Kathisma.

“Depending on whom he ate, yes,” I said. “Looks like the Eparch would be the people’s choice.”

There was a sudden rise in the roaring and growling.

“Look,” I pointed out. “The bear won.”

“Poor little lion,” she said.

She set up before the Kathisma, wheeling the cart with its load of bricks, dressed like a laborer. She bowed low, then wiped the sweat off her brow with an exaggerated motion. She pulled a long loaf of bread out and made as if to eat it.

Along comes a Fool, the very picture of avoiding work. But he eyes the bread and rubs his stomach. A quandary: how does he get bread without actually doing anything to earn it? He thinks, pounding on his head. Then—an idea! He sneaks around behind the laborer, taps him on the right shoulder from behind. The laborer looks that way, but the Fool has already danced to the left and broken off the tip of the loaf. By the time the slowwitted worker has turned back to the front, he’s short some bread, and the Fool is cramming it into his mouth, hiding behind the cart.

The poor Everyman looks about haplessly, shrugs, and starts
again. The Fool does the same trick in reverse, tapping the left shoulder and going right after purloining another piece. The worker, realizing something is up, does a slow burn. Then he waits, feigning a lack of vigilance.

The Fool, having grown overconfident with his success, barely even attempts to conceal himself on his next try. He taps the right shoulder. The worker fakes right, then whirls to the left and whops the Fool solidly with the loaf.