By Rich Elliott

I did not mean to take off his ear, you see. We were driving into a turn, Scorpus to the right of me, a half-length ahead. I needed to hold the inside. So I went to the whip to encourage my horses, and as I did, Scorpus swerved into me.

I remember his ear came off as easily as a falling cherry blossom. At the track things like that happened. But Scorpus was a young man and looks were important to him, and from that time on, he held his wound against me, and I had to watch my back around him.

Blood was common at the track. The mob required blood, and we supplied it. Tito, do you see the scar on my neck? A reminder of another errant whip. And this, on my chest, can you see the hoof print?

I once witnessed a driver’s hand torn off by his reins. And at the Hippodrome of Antioch, I saw a chariot wheel decapitate a man. These things stay with you.

I can see by the fire in your eyes, Tito, that you love these stories. But you have not seen what I have seen. I tell you these things as cautionary tales. For your first duty as a charioteer is to survive. I will train you to survive, Tito. That is foremost.

You dream of going to the City. What boy does not? The scenes in the City are beyond the imagination. The greatest track in the Empire sits there, flush against the Emperor’s Great Palace and the waters of the Marmara.

The brightness of the stands, the Carrara marble, is blinding at first. On the track the sand, perfectly-groomed, shines with flecks of mica. The straightaways are a bowshot long, the turns are wide and sweeping. And in the median lies the magnificent spina with its row of gold statues celebrating the Empire’s greatest charioteers.

In the cavea all around, bearing down on you so close you can smell their garlic breath, are a hundred thousand fanatics. They are separated by color—those wearing the Blue in one section, those of the Green in another. They are all drinking wine, and they are all screaming. Invariably, a madman sprints from the stands onto the course only to be trampled.

In the kathisma sit the Chosen—the senators, prefects, consuls, eunuchs, guardsmen, and of course, the Emperor and his retinue in their shining purple. The Emperor drops the mappa, the white cloth to start the race, and the chariots are off, the horses digging for position, tearing into the first turn-post, and the beginning of seven laps of terror.

Oh yes, a spectacle! Does it appeal to you, Tito? Then know, if you make it to the City, you can earn piles of gold. The lawyers howl that the charioteers make more than they do. The lawyers complain about everything.

If you make it to the City, you can achieve fame. But with fame comes distractions. For example, women will find you. They seek you out like they’re asking for a priest’s blessing. They imagine a moment of immortality.

Once, several women got into our stables. They found me in a stall grooming my stallion. They tore off their clothes, and they surrounded me. I do not make this up! Well, their perfumed smell spooked my horse. I finally had to draw my sword to drive the Sirens away!

Have some more wine, Tito. I can see your lips are dry.

This is why most charioteers take just one lover. The alternative is too tiring. And on the track, fatigue gets you killed.

I had only one lover, and it was simpler that way. Selene was a dancer. Like me, she was a star of the Hippodrome. When she danced in the Circus in her transparent silks, her alabaster arms arching in pure poetry, the mob could not get enough of her.

Selene did this pantomime—it was her trademark—where she enacted the story of Leda and the swan. Do you know it? Yes, of course you do. It is the one where Zeus, in the form of a swan, comes to seduce the innocent Leda.

In the stadium on the proscenium, Selene’s languid motions build and build until, in a frenzy, they climax, and when she collapses, she has stirred such pathos that the people in the stands are weeping. And right there in the cavea, I swear by Christ, a riot of fornication would break out, only to be quelled by the arrival of our chariots.

I suppose I loved her. How does one know such things? In the evenings we recounted the events at the stadium and marveled at the absurdities of the fans. We drank wine, and we ate well. We applied the oils. We understood the needs of our athletic bodies. She knew when to come to me and when not.

We often spoke of retiring, of leaving the City. She knew of a fishing village eight days north. In this village every afternoon the fishermen sold their catch on the beach. Easy laughter and the smell of spices and grilled shad filled the air.

Tito, you would do well to someday find a woman like Selene.

But first you must listen and learn the art of the charioteer. You think because you are the fastest of the boys, and you have won a few races here, that you know what you are doing. What you know is a single dog-turd, excuse my Persian.

If you stay with me, Tito, you will study hard. Because that is what will keep you alive.

You will learn every aspect of the charioteer’s art, how to tend your horses, know what they need, and what to whisper to each of them. If you learn these things, they will die for you.

Yes, and you need to perfect your body. Right now, you think your arms and legs are strong. They are like a girl’s. Your legs must become oak trees, your arms like those of Hercules.

You must learn the chariot, its construction and mechanics. You must know when the frame is a millimeter off. Learn to instruct the craftsman in his repairs. Become an expert of the halter—it must be strapped perfectly. If too tight, your horses will fight it, too loose and the horses get notions of their own.

Practice how to tie the reins around your waist so that if you drop them, you won’t lose them. Learn how, on turns, to rein your inside horse while goading the outside horse. Know when to go to the whip, when to put your horses in full gallop and ride the flow.

Study strategy. When to hold back and when to make your move. How to force your rival into the spina. Yes, you must learn how to inflict pain on your opponents. Because they must never think they can take advantage of you. If that happens, you might as well retire.

Tito, you must learn all these things because in the end, your excellence, your arête, is the only thing that you own. It is the only true thing.

Ah, I see you are rolling your eyes. You are thinking, Who is this old fool? Who is this man Faustinus, this rambling old charioteer, his hair cut in the old hunnic style? What is he doing here in my village? I will tell you. But this part of the tale will require another bottle of wine.

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The factions were a two-headed monster, created to keep the mob divided. But then the monster became restless.

The City’s two factions—the demes—were the Blue and the Green. The Blue were upper class, the Green, lower class. The Blue wanted the status quo, the Green wanted change.

Blue and Green also differed on religion. For the Blue, Christ was both human and divine. For the Green, He had a single nature.

In the City you were either Blue or Green. The demes had their own hairstyles, their own curses, their own politicians, their own priests.

Oh, and know this, the Royal Court favored the Blue.

The demes wore their colors on Circus days when they flocked to the Hippodrome to howl for their team’s dancers and charioteers. We were the vessels for all their conflicting hopes and dreams and hatreds, their rampant stupidities and their absurd passions.

We charioteers were both deified and reviled. To the fans, we were hero-gods. To the priests, we were Satan’s seed. We were refused baptism, yet we were paid millions.

When I rode for Blue, the Blue would pray to God for my victory. When I rode for Green, the Blue fans would scream for my blood. After my friend Julian switched to Green, the Blue tormented him for years. Yet at his funeral three Blue maidens threw themselves onto his pyre.

Then there came the time when the Blue and Green monster began flexing and transforming.

Initially, the Royals made crucial mistakes that agitated the creature. Emperor Justinian was weak. He made a bad treaty with the Persians: Even though we’d defeated the Persians, we now had to pay them for our peace. So taxes went up. The economy was wrecked. Food stalled getting to the City. Priests battled over the nature of Christ. Narses, the Royal eunuch, gained terrifying influence. And so did Queen Theodora.

But these were only the surface agitations. There was something else: A kind of plague-ridden vapor blew in from the Black Sea. It brought a sickness of the mind. The mob lost its grip on reality. Reason melted away.

Soon it was claimed that the Queen’s head was seen to leave her body and roam through the palace. It was claimed that she bedded with the stallions. It was claimed the Emperor had grown donkey ears. Why else was he wearing a helmet? Or maybe the Emperor was really a sea monster who intended to suck up the City. Maybe his evil thoughts caused earthquakes.

It was also claimed the Blue wore their crosses upside down. It was claimed the Green mouthed Satanic oaths instead of prayers. The Blue conversed with snakes. The Green drank the blood of slain priests. The Blue slept on bones stolen from Green cemeteries. The Green snatched Blue children and ate them.  

We of the Circus became even more damned. The priests announced that we would spend a thousand years in hell. The curse tablets of the factions grew ridiculous. This one was my favorite: “I pray that God severs the balls of Faustinus and hangs them on the obelisk.”

Charioteers who won races came under suspicion. You had to be careful how you won, lest you be charged with sorcery. Like poor Libor. Against long odds, he won a diversium race, but then he was beheaded “for practicing dark arts.”

All these absurdities I tried to ignore for I was having my best year. I won two hundred races and lost only ten. My mastery of the art was at its peak. I could win however I chose. I could win from behind or from the front. I could switch to Green and make a bonus. I could switch back to Blue and make a bigger bonus.

I had only to finish the season alive to be acclaimed the year’s Imperial Charioteer. The kind of season even the great Porphyrius, he of the seven statues, would envy. I wanted that acclaim. Through sweat and toil, I had earned it.

Selene and I fantasized about our future. At season’s end we would have enough to retire from the Circus. We would wash our hands of the madness. We would have a quiet life in our fishing village and in the evening sit on the beach and make a small fire.

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Of course, the City was about to explode. As a prelude, some madman freed all the wild beasts from the cages under the stadium, and for several days lions and tigers rampaged through the streets.

At the Hippodrome, as the mob seethed, I kept winning. One day, to no one’s surprise, a riot broke out in the stands. The riot was notable only for its extreme violence—five people were killed. The riot continued for an hour before General Belisarius could suppress it.

Then came the Emperor’s crucial error. In an attempt to maintain law and order, Justinian decreed that one Blue leader and one Green leader would be hung. Did the Emperor not realize that his act of fairness would upset the order of things?

Things only got worse when the hangman failed to do his job correctly.

You see, there is a science to hanging someone. But the science was not followed. The construction of the gallows was a hurried job, the falling-distance was not great enough, and the prisoners’ weight was too light. Remember, people were on the verge of starvation.

 Well, both men survived the hanging.

Blue and Green fans were jubilant. To the mob, this was a sign from God that the two men should be pardoned. The lucky survivors were given sanctuary by meddlesome priests, and the mob awaited the Emperor’s next move.

The Emperor announced he would commute the sentences of the two condemned men. They’d be imprisoned, not hung. Not a popular decision!

Then Justinian declared that the races in the Hippodrome would resume.

On that race day the cavea was boiling with angry people. I never experienced a stadium like that, never felt such turmoil. The mob had tasted power, and it liked the taste. The sound in the stadium was such that I couldn’t hear my horses nor my chariot. The races seemed incidental.

For every roar for a Blue victory or a Green victory, there were ten roars against the Emperor. The mob wanted a full pardon for the condemned men—and this was now only one of their demands.

We charioteers fought hard on the track, inspired by the earthquake of sound and emotion. Racing for Blue, I had my finest day, winning all my races except the first. The contests were brutish and violent.

In the final race of the afternoon, my rival Scorpus nearly won. He drove masterfully, leading the entire way. I could not get around him. All I could do was harass his outside wheel. On every turn I attacked it. And on the final turn, to my surprise, his wheel fell apart in a spray of sand, and I was able to get around him.

It was during my victory lap that I realized I heard something new. I did not hear “Hail to Blue! Long live Blue!” as was the custom. Instead, a new chant rose up, as if from the bowels of the monster. First it was “Long live Blue and Green!” Then it was “Nika, nika, nika!”

You see, Tito, the word “nika,” or “victory,” in normal times, was used to celebrate our Emperor’s victories. But now the word was turned on its head. The mob clearly meant “Our victory!” The maniacs in the stands, they were no longer Blue and Green. They were united in defiance of the Emperor. The two-headed monster now had one head. And it was breathing fire.

The mob went straight for the Palace. Somehow the Imperial Guard successfully defended the gates. So instead, the mob turned to the City. They raged through the streets. Torched the prefecture. Burned down the senate. Broke open the prisons. Looted the shops. Destroyed the baths. They surrounded units of soldiers and tore them apart. And finally, they set fire to the great Basilica and danced while it burned to the ground.

The rampage continued for five days and nights. The City in flames.

“Heaven’s will!” the masses cried.

Now the bastard senators saw their chance to take power. You see, there were other claimants to the throne. The senators put forth Hypatius to depose Justinian. The mob loved this idea. The stooge Hypatius feared for his life, but his fate was sealed.

The senators decided that the Hippodrome races would resume the next day. There they would coronate Hypatius. Order would be restored. Emperor Justinian and his queen were rumored to be fleeing the City. General Belisarius would guard their escape.

Me, I was just happy to get back to the races, back to work. A charioteer needs routine. You need the heat of competition, the cheating of death, to feel normal. And I wanted that Imperial Charioteer laurel.

I confess, Selene and I looked forward with morbid fascination to see what the day would bring. She wore her most beautiful Green silks with the billowing sleeves. She never switched colors, because green so perfectly matched her eyes. My God, Tito, her body was a masterpiece.

It was when I was donning my Blue vestments and turban that Scorpus suddenly appeared at our lodging. A light rain of ash was falling from the recent fires. Scorpus was out of breath.

“Faustinus! A change in plans!” he shouted. I really liked this man’s intensity. “Today we will ride for Green, not Blue. For a huge bonus! The senators want this for the mob.”

“Fine,” I told him. “Gold coins are gold.” In that moment all I was thinking about was the fishing village on the sea.

And then Scorpus hustled away to spread the news to the other drivers.

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That day the mood in the stadium was delirium. The masses had prevailed. “Nika! Nika!” A new order! A new day!

Our dancers whirled in the center stage. My beautiful Selene, radiant in her Green silk, brought the crowd to ecstasy. We charioteers readied our quadrigas and moved toward the starting gate. I saw Scorpus across the way, swaggering and inscrutable. But he was now wearing the Blue, not the Green. Surprising, given our earlier talk.

I was about to question him when thunder erupted in the stadium.

“Look! Narses, the Royal eunuch!” the people were shouting. “He crosses the track! What will he do?”

Did Narses have a message from the Emperor? An olive branch for the masses? It was the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen, this purple-robed boy-man marching straight-backed in front of thousands ready to tear him apart. For one frightening moment, the stadium hushed.

Narses walked directly into the Blue section. He seemed to be huddling with Blue leaders. He held a bag. He was handing out gold coins to the Blue leaders.

A thunderbolt, a shock-arrow went through the crowd.

The Blue fans began sprinting for the exits, pushing, shoving to get out.

The Green stood dumbstruck. What is this? What treachery is this!? We were united! There was to be a coronation of a new Emperor!

But it was already too late for the Green. The Belisarius soldiers, with swords drawn, were pouring into the arena through Dead Man’s Gate. They locked the stadium doors behind them. They charged at anyone who wore the Green.

My sole thought was Selene. I unhooked my fastest horse, Romanus, leapt atop, and plunged into the melee.

The dancers, having just finished their performance, were standing front and center on the track—and thus they were the first to receive the Imperial onslaught. Those dancers wearing Green—those beauties, those innocents, their wild eyes, their pleading arms, their screams for God’s mercy!

But the Imperial swords, they are very sharp. They cut meat like butter. When I reached my poor Selene, she was no longer Selene, her life-blood already consumed by the sand.

It is an image I cannot erase.

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Well. Now you know, Tito, why I need Bacchus to sleep.

Yes, yes, you are anxious to hear how my story ends. To me, it matters little.

In the stadium I found myself surrounded by flashing swords. I shouted at the soldiers. What are you doing, you fools? I am Faustinus, the great charioteer! You know me!

But I was wearing the Green. The Green, you see! And the soldiers had their orders, so my cries meant nothing.

Yet, desperation sometimes opens a window, Tito.

I spurred my horse directly into the stands. Oh, that noble Romanus, how he bolted up the stairs! He charged forward like a mythical beast. Even at the top of the stadium, even as we rushed at the rampart wall, Romanus never balked. I spurred him to leap the marble parapet—and we flew out into the sky.

How we soared that day, Tito! Out and out! Out, and down into the cold black waters of the Marmara.

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You see, Tito, it was Queen Theodora’s plan to save her spineless husband. Belisarius succeeded in restoring order to the City—with the slaughter of thirty thousand Green. The unity of the masses would not be tolerated.

Annihilation is a kind of peace, I guess.

I fled the City. There was no work there because the Circus was halted. It still has not returned, but who knows, maybe someday.

And so here I am, in this far corner of the world, doing the only thing an old charioteer knows how to do, which is train boys like you.

Come on, Tito, you need not look so morose. It is just a story. I can see I’ve allowed you too much wine. Come, I will bring you home.

But please try to understand the cautionary tale I have told you. You must be on guard. You must see with your eyes.

The old era is finished. It is now the Age of Zeal, the Age of Fervor. And all manner of delusion is possible.

Someday you will get tired of old Faustinus. To you, I will be like some blind rooster that squawks blasphemies in the yard. But for now, let’s go home. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow we train.

Historical Note

In 532 CE, the week-long “Nika revolt” resulted in thousands of deaths and the destruction of much of Constantinople.

In the aftermath of the revolt, Emperor Justinian moved to exert greater control over the city, including suppressing the power of the factions. He rebuilt the Hippodrome and the cathedral Hagia Sophia to even greater splendor. He is best known for instituting important judicial reforms. He reined for another thirty years, while Queen Theodora lived for another thirteen years.

Both Faustinus and Porphyrius were actual, famous charioteers at the Hippodrome of Constantinople. What little is known of them comes from ancient writings and inscriptions on the bases of statues erected to celebrate their feats.