Holding my hand in his aloft, he faced the crowd. As planned, the roaring started again – but this time for Phocas as well as for me. ‘Many years and good fortune to Phocas, our Great Emperor,’ the chanting began. ‘Many years to the Orthodox Augustus and Autocrator. Many years to the New Constantine, the New Justinian. Glory and Honour to His Mighty Name.’ The chanting switched to Latin, which was – and still is – used in moments of great public solemnity. ‘Bene, bene, Auguste,’ it began. ‘Conseruet Deus imperium tuum. Uictor sis semper. Deus te praestet ...’ And so it continued in great waves of adulation. The Empire is no sort of democracy. But you need to know how to manage the crowd in the Circus if you want to last on the Imperial Throne. And Phocas had, against all the odds, pulled that off again. His Empire might be confined to the City. The Persians and barbarians and Heraclius might be dividing the rest among themselves.
