Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

His neighbour noticed his astonishment and drew his companions’ attention to it. They grinned with the good-natured condescension of cosmopolitans showing off their sophistication to a foreign hick. They had come prepared for the day, with cushions to pad the stone benches, parasols, baskets of food and flagons of wine. Lucas had to turn his face from all that plenty. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal in three weeks and his stomach had shrunk so that it almost touched his backbone.

By now the Hippodrome was full, the crowd settling into an expectant buzz. Then the noise swelled to a roar that pulsed against Lucas’s ear-drums. Everybody jumped to their feet. His neighbour pulled him upright, pointing at the eastern side of the Hippodrome. Out onto a covered balcony processed a line of god-like figures. The stall must have been more than two hundred yards away, but Lucas could make out the shimmer of silk, the glint of gold, the flash of jewels.

One of the figures, black-bearded and clad in red and purple, advanced to the edge of the box and raised a hand. The crowd bellowed a salutation.

Cupping his ear against the uproar, Lucas leaned towards his neighbour. ‘Is that the emperor?’

The man crossed himself. ‘Basileus Alexius, God preserve him.’

The emperor dropped a white cloth to signal that the games had begun. Out from the stables at the far end of the Hippodrome rolled six chariots, each pulled by four horses. Their riders punched the air and the crowd responded with cheers and boos. The chariots lined up in the stalls, a flag twirled and fell and the horses sprang forward. They galloped straight towards Lucas and it wasn’t until they rounded the first turn directly below him that he appreciated their speed. The chariots drifted and skidded, wheels spraying sand, took the next curve on one rim and went weaving up the far straight.

Lucas’s neighbour nudged him, holding out some nuts. Lucas wolfed them down, the morsels only aggravating his hunger.

On the third lap two of the chariots contested the inside line and collided. One of them kept going, but the other lost a wheel; its axle dug in and flipped it over, hurling its driver ten yards through the air. Stewards ran out, and while some carried the motionless figure away, others caught up the horses and raked the ruts smooth. By the time the chariots raced round again, the track was clear.

Lucas calculated that the race had gone more than two miles before the victorious driver crossed the finishing line below the imperial box to the applause of his supporters and the groans of the punters who’d backed the wrong team.

Between races, musicians and troupes of acrobats performed for the spectators. The sun beat down and Lucas felt increasingly light-headed. ‘How many more races?’ he mimed.

His neighbour held up seven fingers. Lucas couldn’t face a whole day at the races. He had to eat or he would pass out. Touching his neighbour’s shoulder in thanks, he rose on stiff legs and worked his way to the exit.

Outside, the street was nearly empty. He walked through the forum and was heading back towards the port when a waifish girl slipped in front of him, her pretty face screwed up in appeal. She spoke to him and fluttered her eyes, caressing his arms and chest. She couldn’t have been older than twelve, yet it was clear what she was offering. He shifted her aside and walked on. She whimpered and wheedled, matching his pace, then clutched his elbow and burst into tears.

From the odd word and gesture, Lucas understood she was an orphan and perishing of hunger. She wouldn’t leave him alone. He reached inside his tunic and produced a coin. She took it and, overcome by his generosity, threw both hands around his neck and kissed him.

He disentangled himself. ‘There’s no need for that. I had a sister your age and I know what it’s like to go hungry.’

She ran off and he forgot about her, intent on finding a food stall. A heavenly aroma drew him to a booth offering kebabs and flatbread. The fumes from the grilling lamb made him swoon. Ahead of him a customer collected his order, served in a pocket of bread and topped off with a helping of pungent fish sauce. The customer paid with two coins that looked similar to the ones the Greek had given Lucas. He stepped forward. ‘I’ll have the same.’

Watching the lamb sizzle, he could hardly contain his hunger, imagining sinking his teeth into meat and fresh-baked bread for the first time in weeks. When the vendor handed over the fragrant packet, he couldn’t speak for the saliva flooding his mouth.

The vendor held out his other hand for payment.

Lucas felt for his purse, frowned, patted his waist and, with an increasing desperation that would have seemed comical to anyone who didn’t know the reason for it, beat and probed every inch of his body.

‘My purse,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

The vendor snatched back the food.

Understanding hit Lucas and he looked down the road where the girl had vanished. ‘I’ve been robbed.’

He ran into the road and scanned both ways. His hand went to his knife and that’s when he discovered that she’d stolen that, too.

The vendor had followed him and was shoving him in the chest. Lucas in a sick daze put up no resistance. In a stupor of disbelief he began walking, so shocked that he didn’t realise he’d taken the wrong direction until he saw a harbour below him and the Sea of Marmara widening out to the horizon.

He sat on a bench by a church and tried to work out what to do. No doubt about it, he was in a bad plight — penniless, friendless, unable to speak the language. Begging went against his nature, and from what he’d seen, the city’s halt and lame practically formed a guild. No one would give alms to a fit and healthy foreign youth. He’d have to find work. That shouldn’t be difficult in a city as large as Constantinople, and the harbour was the obvious place to look. Feeling more positive, he descended to the waterside and worked his way around the semi-circular quay, enquiring of any likely person where he might find employment. Most of them waved him away; some acted as if he were invisible.

He spotted a column of porters bent under bulky loads, ferrying grain from a ship to a granary. An overseer presided over the gang, tapping the side of his shoe with a stick. Lucas presented himself, pointed at the hurrying men, then pointed at himself. The overseer looked him up and down, assessing him as if he were a beast, then turned and shouted. One of the older stevedores set down his load and came over, cringing with anxiety. The foreman dismissed him with a flick of the hand, jerked his chin at Lucas and pointed at the load.

It must have been early afternoon when he began his labour, and he was tottering on caved legs, his back slick with sweat, his throat and eyes sore from the dust in the granary, when the overseer’s whistle signalled the end of the shift. The gang ceased like a machine that had been turned off. At first, Lucas could only move in a tortured stoop. He approached the overseer and held out his hand. The overseer fended it off with his stick.

Lucas pointed towards his mouth and patted his stomach. ‘Please. I haven’t eaten all day.’

A remote smile passed over the overseer’s face. He made to walk away.

Lucas pulled him back. ‘Just give me what you owe.’

The overseer drew back his stick. Lucas kept his grip.

‘What I’ve earned. That’s all.’

Perhaps the overseer saw in Lucas’s gaze the belligerence that had made the tout on the dock back off. With a kind of disgust, he handed over four tiny coins and swaggered away. The coins weighed next to nothing.

The sun was sinking behind the rooftops when Lucas left the harbour. He slaked his thirst at a public drinking fountain and made his way back to the centre, keeping an eye out for a food stall.