March 23rd, 528 AD. The hippodrome.

The kathisma feels different now that he sits in the center of it. Before, he observed from the margins, studying power like a craftsman learning the grain of wood. Now the throne beneath him is not an object to admire, it’s a burden. The attendants bow lower than they ever did before, the generals stand nearer.

Forty thousand voices roar, and the force of it shakes his heartbeat loose from its rhythm. The air smells of sweat, dust, wine, and blood. The races begin, wheels screaming against the track, chariots whipping past the spina in clouds of dust. He straightens when the Bishop’s hand is on his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to kill me so soon Bishop Maximian.” Justinian smirks, some of his drunken senators laugh. A few of his high dignitaries sit in the box as well.