Justinian

MYAKES

As things worked out, Brother Elpidios, Justinian wasn't in Constantinople when Pope Constantine got close to the city. The Emperor had gone down to Kyzikos, to see how the fleet there was doing, when messengers got to Constantinople saying Constantine would be there any day.

What, Brother? Me? I was in Constantinople. No, I didn't go to Kyzikos with Justinian. He took along Helias and Stephen and the other officers who'd be heading for Kherson as soon as everything was right. He knew I didn't much care for his plans, and so he just left me out of them. We'd been together for thirty-five years and more, him and me, and now it was like I wasn't there any more. It hurt, I'll tell you.

Cyrus the patriarch forgot Justinian wasn't there. He came to the Blakhernai palace himself instead of sending over a flunky, the way he would have done if he knew he couldn't talk to the Emperor himself.

"You planned all of this out ahead of time," I reminded him when he started having kittens right there in front of me. "Justinian hasn't fallen off the edge of the world. He's in Kyzikos or Nikaia or maybe even Nikomedeia by now. He'll either come back here or see Constantine in one of those places. Tiberius can welcome the pope to Constantinople."

Tiberius reminded Justinian of himself as a boy, eh? He reminded me of Justinian, too. Back when Justinian was little, I'd wondered how he'd ever manage to live to grow up without somebody hitting him over the head with a rock first. I wondered the same thing about Tiberius. But Justinian doted on him. Blood calls to blood, they say, and like to like. That was one place where I wasn't ever going to tell the Emperor what I thought, believe you me I wasn't.

Once Cyrus calmed down and stopped running around like a chicken with a fox on its tail, he did pretty well. We had a few days to get ready. For a wonder, Theophilos, who wasn't what you'd call bright, sent word ahead that the bishop of Rome had got to him instead of letting Constantine come on to Constantinople without any warning. Those were the kinds of surprises you didn't want to have.

When Constantine finally got there, he landed at the seventh milestone outside the imperial city. That let Cyrus spread himself, as the saying goes. Out he went, dressed in his fanciest robe. Out went Tiberius, in one of Justinian's old robes and a crown that must have belonged to one of his great-uncles once upon a time. What he looked like was a pretty little ferret in a doll's robe. Out went Theodora, who never quite figured out how vicious her son was.

Out went the nobles, the new ones Justinian had made and the handful of old ones still left alive. And out streamed the people, in swarms and droves. The idea of a pope in the imperial city was a spectacle that ranke d right up there with the hippodrome. The last time a pope had come to Constantinople was during the reign of Constans, Justinian's grandfather. The last time a pope had come to Constantinople without being in chains\a160… I don't know how long ago that was. A bloody long time, I'll tell you.

Anyway, up came the dromon, and beached itself within spitting distance of the seventh milestone. What? Yes, I was there, guarding Tiberius's nasty little neck. We all went out to meet Constantine- Tiberius, Theodora, and Cyrus ahead of everybody else- everybody but the excubitores, that is.

Constantine was out of Syria, and spoke Greek as his native language. He wasn't just a barbarian from the west, in other words- he understood showmanship. He waited till the people who counted were close enough to see what he was doing before he let the captain let down the gangplank. He must have been saving the robe he had on for just that moment, too. It outshone Cyrus's the way a bonfire outshines a lantern.

Despite turning green as an unripe fig when he saw that gorgeous robe, Cyrus kept his wits on what needed doing. He coughed a couple of times, till Tiberius remembered his line: "In the name of my father, I, the Emperor Tiberius, welcome your holiness to the imperial city."

"Poor servant of the servants of Christ that I am, young Emperor, I thank you for your gracious welcome," Constantine answered in gutturally accented Syrian Greek. He looked east, toward the walls and big buildings of Constantinople on the horizon. "I look forward to seeing your great capital, and to meeting your father, the grand and glorious Emperor of the Romans."

He laid it on with a trowel, Pope Constantine did. Well, he hadn't come all that way to tell Justinian what a wicked fellow he was. If he'd been stupid enough to try that, they'd have chosen a new bishop of Rome right afterwards, because the one they had wouldn't have been worth anything to 'em any more.

But that's just chatter, Brother Elpidios. We had some fine horses from the imperial stable waiting for Constantine and the other churchmen he'd brought. They were all tricked out fancy, with gilded saddles and bridles and with saddlecloths of imperial crimson. Along with his gaudy robe, Constantine was wearing a camel-hair cap that reminded me of nothing so much as a woven cowflop, but he was the pope, so who was going to tell him he couldn't?

Cyrus the patriarch rode alongside him as they paraded back toward Constantinople. They were thick as thieves, talking about God and Christ and how to deal with recalcitrant bishops and all sorts of other holy things. I heard bits and pieces of it, because I was marching along by Tiberius's litter, which wasn't far away. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have understood a whole lot more of it.

We went into Constantinople through the Golden Gate. Constantine had been staring at what he could see of the city over the top of the wall- and at the wall, too, come to that. When he finally got inside, he stopped his horse, took a long look around, and said, "I wouldn't have believed it, no matter how many things I've heard."

Everybody who sees Constantinople for the first time says something like that.

Constantine went on, "Rome is a skeleton of what it used to be. Here at last I see a great city in the flesh."

Just like an Anatolian peasant boy who's come to join the army- like me, say, getting close to forty years before then- he kept ohing at this and ahing at that as we rode down the Mese toward the house of Placidia near the church of the Holy Wisdom, where he'd stay till Justinian got word he was there.

He wasn't a bad fellow- Constantine, I mean. Put three or four cups of wine in him and he got friendly, same as anybody else. Put a little more in him and he wanted to wrestle. He'd been a pretty fine wrestler in his younger days, especially, I guess, if you listened to him tell it. Only trouble was, he hadn't seen his younger days any time lately.

What's that, Brother? A bishop wrestling? Well, he did. And do you know what he'd say? He'd say that if it was good enough for Jacob, it was good enough for him. I couldn't figure out any way to argue against that, and I'll bet you won't, either.

Anyhow, Constantine and the rest of the churchmen from Rome had a fine old time in Constantinople. They'd visit a new church or two every day, and at night- ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, Brother Elpidios.

Some of them were downright disappointed when Cyrus's messengers finally tracked down Justinian. Sure enough, he was in Nikaia, on his way from Kyzikos down to Nikomedeia. He sent the messenger who'd caught up with him back to Constantinople with a letter telling Pope Constantine to meet him in Nikomedeia.

Off went the pope. Off went the bishops and priests who'd come along with him. They were getting what they'd come all the way from Rome for, and do you know what? Most of 'em really did look as if they could have waited another couple of weeks to have it.