Justinian

JUSTINIAN

Back to the city. On the road, back to the Queen of Cities. Rain, turning the road to mud. Christ, why rain now? Has God turned His face from me? Is it because I spared Ibouzeros Gliabanos when I had vowed to kill all who wronged me? What else can it be? I made the vow. I broke it. Now I am punished. Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

Rain, turning the road to mud. Christ.

We crawl. We limp. With the rain turning the road to mud, we lurch on. The horses tire. They slow. We crawl.

Where are Bardanes and Helias and Mauros? Out on the sea, out on the sea. God, let this storm that slows me drown them. Do not forsake me, sinner that I am. Blow up a new storm to sink the rebels and Ibouzeros Gliabanos dies at my hands. I know not how, not yet, but it shall be. I will make my word good.

In the tent, the third night out from Sinope, Theodora says, "Once you have killed the rebels, do not go out of Constantinople again."

For her sake, I let her brother live. But that is done. I say, "No." We nod at each other, wary as a Roman soldier and an Arab. She puts a hand on my shoulder. She forgives. She forgives. Lord, have mercy on me.

Christ, have mercy on me. Rain, turning the road to mud.

Amastris again, dull and dead as before. The horses half dead, too. Not enough fresh ones. Rain every day since we left Sinope. Where is Bardanes? Did this storm roar through the Black Sea? Did it take the rebels' dromons down to ruin? God, let it be so. God, make it be so.

The soldiers slog on. They say not a word. They know the need. But they are as tired as their horses. Sometimes they cannot ride, or the horses sink. They march. They sink. Three drown in the mud.

Past Amastris. Where is Bardanes? Every horseman I see fighting his way east, going about his business, puts me in fear. Will the rider hail us? Will he say we are too late? Will he say we have lost the race? Is the rebel at Constantinople? May it not come to pass! Heaven forbid!

Damatrys. Ten miles from Chalcedon. Under the shadow of St. Auxentios's hill. Beacon fire on top of the hill, part of the chain of beacon fires that warns when the Arabs invade. Are there beacon fires for rebels? Would to God there were, to burn them up in.

Another horseman on the road. He sees us. Some of the riders had gone into the fields. They feared my soldiers. This one rides up. "Emperor!" he calls. "Justinian!" My regalia is the color of mud. Everything is the color of mud. He needs a little while to spot me. When he does, he says, "Emperor, Philippikos is in the city."

"Did anyone fight to hold him out?" I ask.

"Emperor, not a soul," he answers.

My hand goes to my ruined nose. Now I know a worse hurt. I look round at my army. The word hits the men like an arrow in the guts. To come so far. To labor so hard. To fall so short. I see their minds. Now we are not the Emperor's soldiers, they think. Now we are rebels and bandits.

"In Kherson, I was Emperor of the Romans with one subject," I shout. Faithful Myakes steps up and waves. Good after all I did not kill him.

"Two subjects, soon," Barisbakourios says. He remembers I gave him his rank.

"I am still Emperor now," I say. "I got Constantinople back once. I will get it back again."

Four men cheer. Five. Six. Worse than none. Like a dying ghost of what a cheer ought to be. Hope drips out like blood from a cut vein.

The rider still sits his horse. "Emperor. There is more."

Morning. Barisbakourios is-