David Pilling - The Red Death

He calculated that a trial by combat would appeal to Belisarius’s martial soul. Staging it in the Hippodrome would also please the people. It would give them a public spectacle unknown since the church had outlawed gladiatorial combats, and sate their lust for blood.

He was right in both cases, though I tremble to think what Theodora had to say in private. Of all the men in Constantinople, I suspect only Justinian suffered more sleepless nights than myself during the week leading up to the combat.

I was taken under guard to the Hippodrome and held in one of the old store-rooms under the arena. Leo and his accomplices were kept in the palace, in the care of Theodora. In the mornings I was taken out and allowed to exercise for an hour or two in the arena, under the supervision of Belisarius and a troop of his Veterans.

Belisarius insisted on sparring with me, and so every morning I found myself engaging in mock combats with the conqueror of North Africa. He was easily the better swordsman, and gave me good advice as we fenced back and forth across the arena, the dull clashing of our wooden practice swords echoing through the empty stands.

“You need to move faster,” he remarked one morning as he herded me like a sheep, his sword stabbing at my chest and face with blinding speed, “not stand rooted to one spot. Pharas and his drill-instructors should have taught you better.”

We were stripped to the waist, the sweat rolling off us in waves. I could scarcely draw breath to reply, and waited for the inevitable moment when he knocked the sword from my hand and placed his against my throat.

“Dead,” he said with a grin, and let his sword drop, “fortunately, you won’t be fighting me. I had a good look at Leo. He’s at least twice your age, and as far as I know has never served in the army. Have you ever seen him use a sword?”

I gratefully accepted a cup of cold water from one of the Veterans. “Once or twice,” I replied, gulping it down, “but only with practice weapons like these, never in earnest. He trained as a charioteer.”

“Then you should find it easy enough to kill him,” said Belisarius, “I recommend you do it quickly, without fuss. A single thrust to the heart. The crowd will want you to draw it out, to hack him to pieces for their entertainment. Ignore them. The sooner Leo and his friends are dead, the better.”

One of his men passed him a towel, and he wiped the sweat from his face while I worked up the courage to speak.

“Thank you for defending me in court, sir,” I said awkwardly, “I would have been condemned otherwise. I have no way of repaying you.”

“There is no debt between us. That trial was a farce. I’ve never witnessed such a crude attempt at entrapment in my life.”

His eyes flickered briefly at his Veterans. I understood his meaning. There were spies everywhere, even among his guards, and he could not say too much.

“My own subalterns betrayed me in Africa,” he said quietly, “and bore false tales to the Emperor. The heart of the Empire is rotten with corruption. There is only one cure. A proper example must be made of traitors, in public. Kill Leo. Not just to save yourself, but all of us.”

Belisarius had promised to return Caledflwch to me on the morning of the combat, so I could use it in the arena. I felt confident that my task was a simple one, made simpler by the knowledge that I would have my grandfather’s sword to do it.

We had reckoned without Theodora. Aware that her champion was not up to the task of killing me in a straight fight, she allowed her husband no rest until he agreed to change the rules.

I learned of this from Belisarius on the fifth morning before the combat. “No sparring today,” he said as I was brought out into the sunlit arena, “there’s no point.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. His long face was suited to grave expressions, and he had seldom looked graver.

“Last night the Emperor changed his mind, or rather the Empress changed it for him. Instead of a combat on foot, fought with swords and shields, you and Leo will compete in chariots. With javelins.”

I gaped at him. “Chariots? But that is absurd!”

“I know, but it gives your opponent more of a chance. He was a trainer for the Blues, is that not so?”

“Yes. One of the best. He taught me everything I know, including all the dirty tricks used during races.”

“Well, the Emperor has spoken, and there are only two days until the duel. It cannot be called off now. There would be riots in the streets, and I have no wish to lead Roman troops against Roman citizens a second time. You were a charioteer for a time. Can you beat him?”

I chewed my thumb-nail and thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” I admitted, “I was better than I pretended to be, but he was one of the best. And I am out of practice.”

“So is he, and there is little time for either of you to train. We must do what we can.”

Belisarius turned to his guards. “Fetch a sheaf of javelins,” he ordered, “and a straw target to set up in the arena.”

He also gave orders for one of the chariots to be brought out of storage, and a team of horses to be found.

Most of the beasts had been either slaughtered for meat or sold into private ownership after the Hippodrome was closed down. Belisarius’s men succeeded in tracking down two pairs owned by a retired doryphoroi turned horse-merchant, and after much bargaining persuaded him to part with them.

“Be thankful I am a rich man,” the general grumbled, “the old bastard charged me three or four times their actual worth.”

“Worth the money, sir,” I said, “it gives me an advantage that Leo doesn’t have.”

That was rather too optimistic. Leo had forgotten more about chariot-racing than I would ever know, and a day or two of practice wouldn’t do much to close the gap in skill between us.

Still, my spirits lifted as I watched a team of slaves drag out a dusty chariot from storage, and the horses placed in harness. The memory of my first race came flooding back to me – the Hippodrome packed with spectators, the venerable Emperor Anastasius standing up to salute their cheers, and the feel of the light wooden chariot shuddering under my feet as the spring-loaded gates flew open.

The roar of the crowd echoed faintly in my mind as I cautiously mounted the chariot brought out from storage.

“The rules are this,” said Belisarius, handing me a javelin, “you and Leo will each have three of these. One in your hands when the duel begins, the others held by attendants.”

I examined the javelin. It was a type of plumbata used by imperial infantry, a light throwing dart with a fletched iron tip weighted with lead. Plumbatae had replaced the heavier pila, used by the old Roman legions, since they had a longer range and were cheaper to produce.

Belisarius walked to a section of the track directly below the imperial box. “You will start here,” he called out, “with your chariots facing in opposite directions. When the Emperor gives the signal, you will go one way, Leo the other. At the point your chariots meet, you cast your javelins at each other.”

“Are we permitted armour?” I asked.

“Helmets and light mail. It would not do for the entertainment to be over too quickly. You must aim for Leo’s face.”

I nodded doubtfully. To control a chariot pulled by galloping horses was difficult enough with both hands. To do so with one, whilst bracing to throw a javelin at the same time, would be a severe test of skill and co-ordination.

“Assuming you do not kill or disable each other at the first pass,” Belisarius went on, “the attendants will throw you a second javelin here, when you reach the starting line. And a third, if necessary, though I doubt it will be. Even a handless cripple like you should have managed to hit the mark before then.”