The Purple Shroud: A Novel of Empress Theodora by Stella Duffy Page A
Authors: Stella Duffy
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reminding each other that the Emperor was more interested in the Empire than the City, in thePersian border than the lads fighting for it. Hanged for a street fight. Hanged where, often enough, the same crime might have been punished with blinding or exile or loss of land, loss of citizenship. Hanged to shut them up.
The second neck was broken, second wasted seed given up, second man taken down. It was darker now, the winter sun almost set. The crowd were restless, the hangman was sweating, shaking. The hangman’s assistant, worried his boss would collapse and leave him to deal with the crowd, suggested they could speed matters through, dispatch both men at once. With one Green and one Blue still to hang, whichever man they dealt with first, an extra few moments of life granted to one and not the other would set off a ruckus. This crowd were difficult enough as it was, the Prefect’s men were having a hard time keeping them back from the scaffold. Could they not hang both men at once and be done with it?
The hangman agreed. He preferred to give each man his due, it had been a mark of his career that a condemned man’s crimes were given their allotted time, that the victim’s family would see the full effect of their reparation, an individual life for an individual life. But his guts were churning, his body streaming sweat, he’d had to run off the scaffold once, he couldn’t risk it again; this was the best way, two at once.
Two ropes were raised and the crowd groaned. Two men brought out, made to stand closer than they wanted, than their people wanted: even this near to death the lifelong enmity raged on. The assistant checked the nooses, the hangman made his calculations as to the correct counterweights to use now that there were two waiting to die. The ropes went round the necks, the crowd were screaming, the sun fully set and the square lit by torches. The hangman asked forgiveness, one gave it, the other did not. The men’s faces were covered. The hangman and his assistant stepped back, the lever waspulled. And nothing happened. The trapdoor did not fall, the men did not drop, no necks were broken, no lives ended. The hangman adjusted the knot, pulled the nooses tighter around both necks, heavy hemp weighing down condemned shoulders. Hangman and assistant stepped back again, the lever was pulled again, with more force this time, and then the trapdoor fell partially but not completely. Now both men were hanging but still standing on the tips of their toes: they were alive, their necks stretched and burned by the rope, but not broken.
The crowd had had enough. They swarmed up on to the scaffold from the ground, Blues and Greens together. The hangman was sensible enough to leap back down into the scuffle, becoming one of the crowd, and watched his assistant beaten aside by the mass of people. Ropes were cut, hoods removed, condemned men whisked away to asylum in the Church of St Lawrence. No chance to rub their bloody and bruised necks, throats hoarse from near-asphyxiation, they were hurried into small boats and ferried over the water. As factions worked together with monks to cover their tracks, hiding from the Prefect’s police, confusing those following them, the rescued men were rushed away. The faction leaders said it was a sign from God, their men had been saved. Natural justice in the form of the hangman’s shaking hands had pardoned the remaining men – one from each side, so it could not be considered anything but fair. They should be freed. They would plead their case at the games in three days’ time, the Emperor would hear their cause, justice would prevail.
Justinian and Narses held emergency meetings, Tribonian and his advisers studied precedent, John the Cappadocian and Eudaemon the Prefect drank late into the night debating the possibilities. Belisarius and Mundus drilled their troops: always better to be prepared. The hangman went home to his wife,as ashamed as his roiling guts and sweating
The second neck was broken, second wasted seed given up, second man taken down. It was darker now, the winter sun almost set. The crowd were restless, the hangman was sweating, shaking. The hangman’s assistant, worried his boss would collapse and leave him to deal with the crowd, suggested they could speed matters through, dispatch both men at once. With one Green and one Blue still to hang, whichever man they dealt with first, an extra few moments of life granted to one and not the other would set off a ruckus. This crowd were difficult enough as it was, the Prefect’s men were having a hard time keeping them back from the scaffold. Could they not hang both men at once and be done with it?
The hangman agreed. He preferred to give each man his due, it had been a mark of his career that a condemned man’s crimes were given their allotted time, that the victim’s family would see the full effect of their reparation, an individual life for an individual life. But his guts were churning, his body streaming sweat, he’d had to run off the scaffold once, he couldn’t risk it again; this was the best way, two at once.
Two ropes were raised and the crowd groaned. Two men brought out, made to stand closer than they wanted, than their people wanted: even this near to death the lifelong enmity raged on. The assistant checked the nooses, the hangman made his calculations as to the correct counterweights to use now that there were two waiting to die. The ropes went round the necks, the crowd were screaming, the sun fully set and the square lit by torches. The hangman asked forgiveness, one gave it, the other did not. The men’s faces were covered. The hangman and his assistant stepped back, the lever waspulled. And nothing happened. The trapdoor did not fall, the men did not drop, no necks were broken, no lives ended. The hangman adjusted the knot, pulled the nooses tighter around both necks, heavy hemp weighing down condemned shoulders. Hangman and assistant stepped back again, the lever was pulled again, with more force this time, and then the trapdoor fell partially but not completely. Now both men were hanging but still standing on the tips of their toes: they were alive, their necks stretched and burned by the rope, but not broken.
The crowd had had enough. They swarmed up on to the scaffold from the ground, Blues and Greens together. The hangman was sensible enough to leap back down into the scuffle, becoming one of the crowd, and watched his assistant beaten aside by the mass of people. Ropes were cut, hoods removed, condemned men whisked away to asylum in the Church of St Lawrence. No chance to rub their bloody and bruised necks, throats hoarse from near-asphyxiation, they were hurried into small boats and ferried over the water. As factions worked together with monks to cover their tracks, hiding from the Prefect’s police, confusing those following them, the rescued men were rushed away. The faction leaders said it was a sign from God, their men had been saved. Natural justice in the form of the hangman’s shaking hands had pardoned the remaining men – one from each side, so it could not be considered anything but fair. They should be freed. They would plead their case at the games in three days’ time, the Emperor would hear their cause, justice would prevail.
Justinian and Narses held emergency meetings, Tribonian and his advisers studied precedent, John the Cappadocian and Eudaemon the Prefect drank late into the night debating the possibilities. Belisarius and Mundus drilled their troops: always better to be prepared. The hangman went home to his wife,as ashamed as his roiling guts and sweating
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