Julian Stockwin - THE SILK TREE

The crowd quietened to a hush.

Nicander held his breath: he and Marius were no more than a hundred yards from the royal box. A vast roar went up as Emperor Justinian appeared, an image of white and gold, the glitter of precious stones, a sumptuous purple cloak. On his head, a tall pearl diadem, and at the shoulder of his Greek-style chlamys a massive clasp worked in gold and rubies.

The great man moved with the deliberation of age but was not stooped. He was alone, no empress shared the moment with him for the fabled Theodora was dead.

Justinian, one hand on his breast, gazed down inscrutably on the seething thousands. Suddenly he held up both hands. The roar fell away and a herald appeared to the sound of the trumpets.

‘In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ! The Emperor Caesar Flavius Justinian, Vice-regent of God, conqueror of the Vandals, the Africans, the Goths and Allemani. Pious and renowned, victorious and triumphant, ever august. Hear him, his people!’

For most of the crowd the stentorian voice was barely audible and when Justinian began speaking it was impossible to make out his words. But it was enough that their emperor was addressing them. He sat down to a surge of excited anticipation – the games had begun.

From the far end of the hippodrome burst dozens of gaily dressed performers, spreading rapidly down the track, their acrobatics, contortions and clowning a preliminary to the animals.

The bears were brought out for baiting, but the crowd were not in the mood for any delay before the coming race. They were hastily removed.

Then there were movements in the starting boxes. A spreading roar went up at the appearance of four chariots, two Green and two Blue, each with four horses. Their drivers were dressed head to toe in their colours, which also decorated the horses and chariots. One by one, the teams saluted the Emperor then raised their hands to receive the acclamation of the crowd.

Eventually the chariots were eased forward to the white cord, the horses snorting and jibbing in nervous expectation.

The noise died. Justinian solemnly raised an outstretched hand which held a crimson silk cloth. It fluttered for a moment – then fell.

A colossal wave of sound erupted. The horses leapt forward, whips lashing without mercy as the charioteers strove for advantage. The four teams swept down the straight towards Nicander and Marius, swerving at maniacal speed in a breakneck contest for an inside place at the turn. They fought their way around the end of the spina in a tight bunch, wheels skidding, the drivers leaning at extreme angles.

A Green took the lead.

The chariots flew down the straight, dust swirling, the frenzied roar of the spectators never slackening. Then around the far end and back up the other straight.

A gilt ball dropped on a pole of the spina signified a lap completed.

The Green was still out in front by a couple of lengths, a Blue in hot pursuit, the other two jockeying for position close behind as they came up to the turn below the Emperor.

Nicander was shouting and screaming with the rest, barely aware of Marius next to him bellowing and flailing his arms like a madman.

The chariots crowded into another turn. The lead Green was going all out, setting a cruel pace for the Blue that was close behind.

Then Nicander saw that those following were the two star charioteers: first Nepos for the Blues then Priscus for the Greens – and they were separated from the leaders by a significant three lengths.

Was this a ploy to reserve everything for a ferocious last lap?

When would the fix go in? To be certain of the outcome Nepos had either to be in the lead or second coming up – but there were still two ahead vying for position! If either of these second-rank drivers won, their fame was assured and as they made for the turn they were neck and neck, slashing their foam-streaked horses into madness.

Then, in a split second, everything changed. As they went into the turn, the lead horse of the Green chariot out in front seemed to stumble and hop and his other horses, confused, slackened their pace. The driver skilfully slewed his chariot clear of the onrushing avalanche of horses and riders but he

This left the two Blues in the lead. The Greens supporters screeched their dismay.

Now the final turn lay ahead. Nepos, flashing a glance behind at Priscus saw his chance and lashed his horses to their limits, gradually pulling up level with the leading Blue. They stayed together, denying Priscus the Green any chance at the inside in this last, critical turn.

The crowd went wild. But yet again the situation changed – the first Blue was visibly tiring, spent in reckless efforts to stay in front and was dropping back. Priscus saw his chance and began a move to overtake. All three closed the turn – if Priscus could manage the manoeuvre the race would be his!

But then the first Blue deliberately went wide. It blocked Priscus but gave Nepos the inside at the cost of his own position in the race. Priscus, however, tugged savagely at his reins and fell in behind Nepos on the inside. They came out of the turn skidding wildly and into the final straight.

From somewhere Priscus found the last vestiges of strength in his horses and began pulling up with Nepos, whose glances behind betrayed that his own foam-streaked animals were at the limit of their endurance.

There was an overlap! Nepos swerved to discomfit Priscus who sheered away but came back quickly still overhauling the Blue. There was blood streaking the back of Nepos’s horses – he swerved again but there was no deterring the Green and they swayed dangerously close together.

The fix! Do it now! Nicander’s heart hammered but he knew Nepos would only act when Priscus was in exactly the right place for the deadly blow.

Transfixed, he watched as the Green drew level, Nepos’s head flicking over again and again as he made his judgement. Nicander remembered the position of the trap – Priscus would have to be precisely two feet ahead before-

In a heart-stopping moment the chariot seemed to explode, pieces cartwheeling and bouncing. The maddened horses plunged on with the wreck furrowing the dust behind, the helpless charioteer dragged along behind, entangled in the traces.

But this was not Priscus – it was the Blue! Nicander felt numb: the opposition must somehow have got wind of the fix and put in their own.

Nepos desperately went for the knife down his back to cut himself free but he couldn’t reach it and his frantic horses thundered on. He was sandpapered to death in front of the screeching crowd, while Priscus cantered on to an easy victory.

In a haze of unreality Nicander and Marius watched the garlanded winner receive his prize and laurel crown from the hand of the Emperor then turn to receive a deafening acclamation from the masses.

Fighting their way clear of the riotous supporters streaming from the hippodrome the pair, headed for home – the stinking stew they had so hoped to be rid of.

Neither spoke, the crushing enormity of what had happened too great for words. In the gathering dusk gangs of the Green faction gleefully set upon any Blue they could find, but at the sight of the big legionary they left the pair alone.

They passed a wine shop overflowing with raucous customers. Marius snarled a curse. ‘Wait!’ he mouthed and loped off down a side alley.

Nicander became uneasy when he didn’t reappear after some minutes.

Then Marius, cradling a heavy amphora, burst from out of the alley, pursued by a livid innkeeper. Nicander thrust out his foot and the man chasing him was sent sprawling headlong on the ground.

‘Where are you going with that?’ he panted after catching up with Marius.

‘What do you think!’