Metaxas was a tremendous Courier. He knew everybody and everything, and maneuvered us into superb positions for the big events.

“We are now,” he said, “in January, 532. The Emperor Justinian rules. His ambition is to conquer the world and govern it from Constantinople, but most of his great achievements lie ahead. The city, as you see, still looks much as it did in the last century. In front of you is the Great Palace; to the rear is the rebuilt Haghia Sophia of Theodosius II, following the old basilica plan, not yet reconstructed with the familiar domes. The city is tense; there will soon be civil disorder. Come this way.”

Shivering in the cold, we followed Metaxas through the city, down byways and avenues I had not traveled when I came this way earlier with Capistrano. Never once on this trip did I catch sight of my other self or Capistrano or any of that group; one of Metaxas’ legendary skills was his ability to find new approaches to the standard scenes.

Of course, he had to. At this moment there were fifty or a hundred Metaxases leading tours through Justinian’s city. As a matter of professional pride he wouldn’t want to intersect any of those other selves.

“There are two factions in Constantinople now,” said Metaxas. “The Blues and the Greens, they are called. They consist of perhaps a thousand men on each side, all trouble-makers, and far more influential than their numbers indicate. The factions are something less than political parties, something more than mere supporters of sports teams, but they have characteristics of both. The Blues are more aristocratic; the Greens have links to the lower classes and the commercial strata. Each faction backs a team in the Hippodrome games, and each backs a certain course of governmental policies. Justinian has long been sympathetic to the Blues, and the Greens mistrust him. But as emperor he has tried to appear neutral. He would actually like to suppress both factions as threats to his power. Each night now the factions run wild in the streets. Look: those are the Blues.”

Metaxas nodded at a cluster of insolent-looking bravos across the way: eight or nine idling men with long tumbles of thick hair to their shoulders, and festoons of beards and mustaches. They had cut back only the hair on the front of their heads. Their tunics were drawn in tight at the wrists, but flared out enormously from there to the shoulders; they wore gaudy capes and breeches and carried short two-edged swords. They looked brutal and dangerous.

“Wait here,” said Metaxas, and went over to them.

The Blues greeted him like an old friend. They clapped him on the back, laughed, shouted in glee. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I saw Metaxas grasping hands, talking quickly, articulately, confidently. One of the Blues offered him a flask of wine and he took a deep drink; then, hugging the man in mock tipsiness, Metaxas cunningly whisked the Blue’s sword from its sheath and pretended to run him through. The rowdies capered and applauded. Now Metaxas pointed at us; there were nods of agreement, oglings of the girls, winks, gestures. Finally we were summoned across the street.

“Our friends invite us to the Hippodrome as their guests,” said Metaxas. “The races begin next week. Tonight we are permitted to join them in their revels.”

I could hardly believe it. When I’d been here with Capistrano, we skulked about, keeping out of sight, for this was a time of rape and murder by night, and all laws ceased to function after dark. How did Metaxas dare to bring us so close to the criminals?

He dared. And that night we roamed Constantinople, watching the Blues rob, ravish, and kill. For other citizens, death lay just around any corner; we were immune, privileged witnesses to the reign of terror. Metaxas presided over the nightmare prowl like a sawed-off Satan, cavorting with his Blue friends and even fingering one or two victims for them.

In the morning it seemed like a dream. The phantoms of violence vanished with the night; by pale winter sunlight we inspected the city and listened to Metaxas’ historical commentary.

“Justinian,” he said, “was a great conqueror, a great lawgiver, a great diplomat, and a great builder. This is history’s verdict. We also have the Secret History of Procopius, which says that Justinian was both a knave and a fool, and that his wife Theodora was a demonic whorish villainess. I know this Procopius: a good man, a clever writer, something of a puritan, a little too gullible. But he’s right about Justinian and Theodora. Justinian is a great man in the great things and a terribly evil man in the petty things. Theodora” — he spat — “is a whore among whores. She dances naked at dinners of state; she exhibits her body in public; she sleeps with her servants. I’ve heard she gives herself to dogs and donkeys, too. She’s every bit as depraved as Procopius claims.”

Metaxas’ eyes twinkled. I knew without being told that he must have shared Theodora’s bed.

Later that day he whispered, “I can arrange it for you. The risks are slight. Did you ever dream you could sleep with the Empress of Byzantium?”

“The risks—”

“What risks? You have your timer! You can get free! Listen to me, boy, she’s an acrobat! She wraps her heels around your ears. She consumes you. I can fix it up for you. The Empress of Byzantium! Justinian’s wife!”

“Not this trip,” I blurted. “Some other time. I’m still too new at this business.”

“You’re afraid of her.”

“I’m not ready to fuck an empress just yet,” I said solemnly.

“Everybody else does it!”

“Couriers?”

“Most of them.”

“On my next trip,” I promised. The idea appalled me. I had to turn it off somehow. Metaxas misunderstood; I wasn’t shy, or afraid of being caught by Justinian, or anything like that; but I couldn’t bring myself to intersect with history that way. Traveling up the line was still fantasy for me; humping the celebrated monstress Theodora would make the fantasy all too real. Metaxas laughed at me, and for a while I think he felt contempt for me. But afterward he said, “It’s okay. Don’t let me rush you into things. When you’re ready for her, though, don’t miss her. I recommend her personally.”

We stayed around for a couple of days to watch the early phases of the riots. The New Year’s Games were about to begin, and the Blues and Greens were growing more unruly. Their roughnecking was verging on anarchy; no one was safe in the streets after dark. Justinian worriedly ordered the factions to halt their maraudings, and various ringleaders were arrested. Seven were condemned to death, four by decapitation because they were caught carrying weapons, three by hanging on grounds of conspiracy.

Metaxas took us to see the performance. One of the Blues survived his first hanging when the rope broke under his weight. The imperial guards put him up there again, and again the gallows couldn’t finish him, though the rope left fiery marks on his throat. So they put him aside for a while and strung up a Green, and bungled that job twice too; they were about to put the battered victims through a third hanging apiece when some outraged monks came boiling out of their monastery, grabbed the men in the midst of the confusion, and spirited them across the Golden Horn by rowboat to sanctuary in some church. Metaxas, who had seen all this before, cackled wildly at the fun. It seemed to me that his face peered at me from a thousand places in the crowd that had turned out for the executions.

Then the racing season began at the Hippodrome, and we went as guests of Metaxas’ friendly gang of Blues. We had plenty of company; 100,000 Byzantines were in the stands. The tiers of marble seats were crowded far past capacity, but space had been saved for us.

I hunted for myself in the stands, knowing that I sat somewhere else here with Capistrano and that tour; but in the crush I couldn’t catch a glimpse of myself. I saw plenty of Metaxas, though.