Justinian

BOOK B

"Romans!" I said loudly, pitching my voice to carry and doing my best to make sure it stayed deep, "Romans, I stand before you full of grief, grief that my father, who fought so fiercely to force back the followers of the false prophet, now no longer dwells among men and rules Romania, but has so soon gone to earn God's reward for his greatness here on earth."

I made the sign of the cross. So did the ecumenical patriarch. So did many of the dignitaries in the great church. Many of them were up on their toes, leaning forward slightly so as to be able to capture every word and from those words to try to divine the future course of the Roman Empire.

That suited me. I had no intention of hiding my aims- on the contrary. I said, "As much as my father wished to be most beloved by the barbarians, so he who is now Emperor of the Romans wishes to be most feared by them all. So that no barbarians might invade our provinces and do them harm, we shall, as soon as may be, trouble them with continuous attacks."

A sigh went through the church of the Holy Wisdom. The wars would not begin at once- it was too late in the season to start a campaign- but begin they would. My father had told me I could set my own course when the Empire rested in my hands, and I aimed to do just that.

"Romans, 'Tu vincas!' should not be only an idle acclamation, spoken and then forgotten," I said earnestly, "nor is passivity preferable to fighting. The peace we have with the Bulgars- a peace existing for no other reason than that it is bought and sold- is shameful and slavish. Better by far to bear wounds in our bodies than in our souls. Before long, the barbarians shall learn a lasting lesson."

I paused. The notables cheered. Nothing else was possible. I was the Emperor. I had defined, as I had the right to define, the direction the Roman Empire would take. Their task was to make it go in that direction, nothing more.

They sensed as much, giving me the cry of "Tu vincas!" again, over and over, till the ancient Latin words came echoing back from the great dome that, as some writer from the age of my namesake says, seems more as if it is suspended from the sky by a golden chain than a part of any merely earthly building. I paraphrase without the book before me, I fear.

Up to this time, all acclamations had gone to my father, save for rare moments like that in the Forum of Constantine. Hearing hundreds of prominent people shouting my praises was heady as strong wine. I had not yet learned those nobles and clerics and soldiers would acclaim a usurper, a rebel, a tyrant, as fulsomely as their legitimate lord.

With the crown on my head, I strode out of the great church to receive fresh plaudits from the people. I already knew the city mob was fickle; anyone attending two days' racing at the hippodrome could have said as much. But for now they were all with me, and I basked in their acclaim like a fence lizard basking in the sun.

On the procession returning to the palace, the servitors helped keep the people happy by throwing more coins out to them. As at the church of the Holy Wisdom, struggling over the nomismata and miliaresia seemed as enjoyable as having them. A tagline from some pagan play ran through my mind: "Man seeks God and, seeking, finds Him." And is not gold a god for far too many?

When I was back at the palace- my palace now- I thought of summoning a serving girl to my chamber and celebrating my accession in the most enjoyable fashion I could imagine. Then, all at once, I recalled my father's deathbed words to me. He had been more than half out of his wits with sickness and poppy juice, but that did not mean he had made no sense.

Instead of some lively wench, I called for Stephen the Persian. When he came before me, he prostrated himself. That took me aback: another reminder I was the Emperor. I told him to rise and then said, "Fetch my mother and, having brought her, you stay as well. I would take counsel with the two of you."

He bowed in obedience and hurried away. Like every palace servitor, he had always been attentive to my wants. What he was now was as far beyond attentiveness as that was beyond indifference. I had not realized the power the Emperor enjoys until it fell into my hands and I could feel of it.

Stephen returned with my mother a few minutes later. The eunuch parakoimomenos wore a fine robe of sea-green samite shot through with silver threads, a fitting bit of splendor for my coronation ceremony but an odd contrast to my mother's black wool of mourning. Her face bore a curious mix of expressions: partly the stunned sorrow that had held her since her husband died, partly pride that her son should have succeeded to the lordship of the world.

Both of them stood silent. After a moment, I saw they were waiting for me to speak, another imperial perquisite I had not before encountered. I came straight to the point: "I think I should wed, and as quickly as possible, too."

My mother nodded at once; she too remembered my father's words. "I think you are wise. You are the last man of your line, and God's will is unknowable to us. We have seen that." Her voice went ragged with pain as she crossed herself. "If the family is to go on\a160…" She nodded again.

"While I would not presume to disagree with the Emperor's wise words\a160…" Stephen's strange voice was, as always, dulcet, beautifully modulated. He was a courtier through and through, to disagree by denying he was disagreeing. His decorous pause allowed me to order him to silence if I so chose. When I waved for him to go on, he did, saying, "The treasury, having been strained by today's festivities, will for some little while be in poor condition to absorb the further expenses inherent in a wedding celebration, and so it might be more prudent to wait and-"

Now I did cut him off, with a harsh, chopping motion of my right hand. "The nomismata in the treasury are not yours, Stephen," I said sharply. "They belong to the Empire, and to the Emperor- to me. If I say they shall be spent on my wedding, they shall. Do you understand?"

Stephen bowed. "I do indeed, Emperor. My only thought was to serve both you and the treasury as well as I could."

Looking back on it, I suppose he hated me. At the time, I neither noticed nor cared. He would obey: that was what mattered. I turned to my mother. "But whom shall I marry?" I knew, by then, a good deal about bedding serving maids… and just enough to realize that was not the same as picking a wife. I did not even know which of the notable men of Constantinople had daughters of marriageable age; the women of the wealthy and prominent live sheltered lives, and are not casually seen by men outside their families. I certainly did not know which of those daughters of marriageable age might suit me.

"We must think carefully," my mother said, her voice more lively than it had been since my father first took ill. "We must look at the character of the girl, at who her relatives are, at-"

"Her dowry," Stephen the Persian put in.

My mother nodded, albeit reluctantly. "That does matter, but less here than it would in another marriage. If the Emperor must depend on his wife's bride-portion for what he needs, the Roman Empire has fallen on hard times indeed."

"True," Stephen admitted, "but, everything else being the same, more is better than less. Gold never goes to waste." Yes, he was one of those who spoke the word "gold" as another might say "God." I noted that then, and put it to use later.

"I shall inquire," my mother said. She had something to do now, some direction in which to go. The smile she gave me was wan, but it was a smile. "Is there anything more, Emperor?" It was the first time she called me what I now was.

I shook my head, dismissing her and Stephen. Having given them a purpose, I soon found one of my own, the one I had rejected before. Soon, I was frolicking with one of the blond Sklavinians, not Irene, but another one. If I was to be restricted to a wife thereafter, I would enjoy myself while I could.

One thing I quickly discovered: when the bridegroom is to be the Emperor of the Romans, every family in the city has an eligible- indeed, an ideal- daughter, or imagines it has. Some of these my mother quickly eliminated from consideration. No, I did not want to marry the headsman's daughter; or a screaming harridan of thirty-five who remained unwed and undoubtedly virgin because every man who got near her had fled in terror; or a girl who, although of the requisite age and social standing, had the misfortune- or the greed- to be wider than she was tall.

"She would not suit you," my mother said seriously, speaking of this last candidate. "There are appetites, and then there are appetites."

I stared at her. It was the first time I had ever seen, ever thought of, her as a woman rather than merely as my mother, the first time I truly realized what losing my father meant to her. Not knowing what to say, I kept silent.

Over the next few weeks, she and Stephen the Persian winnowed the list down to three. "Among these, I cannot choose," she said. "Best you should meet them all, and pick which one suits you."

And so I did. Zoe, the daughter of Florus the patrician, was like the general in being clever and plainspoken. Unfortunately, she also looked like him, and Florus, while fearsome to his foes, was also fearsome to behold. I was sure Florus's status and her own good sense would get Zoe a match one day, but it would not be with me.

Anna was the daughter of John, the eparch of the city. But, although John had the brains to administer Constantinople, a quarter hour's conversation convinced me Anna had none in her head or concealed anywhere else about her person. She was pretty and well made, which tempted me, but, before making up my mind, I decided to see the third of the girls my mother and the parakoimomenos thought a possible match for me.

Before I did meet Eudokia, I teased my mother, saying, "This whole business reminds me of the way I'll choose a new patriarch when old George dies. The synod of bishops will send me three names, and I'll pick one from among them."

"Choose wisely then," my mother answered. "Choose wisely now, too."

And so I met Eudokia, the daughter of Philaretos. Her father was count of the walls, the officer in charge of maintaining the Long Wall, the fortification protecting the part of Thrace nearest Constantinople from barbarian attack. Philaretos was a less prominent man than either Florus or John, which had advantages and disadvantages both. While he brought less influence than either of the other two men, he was also less likely to get above his station and think that being father-in-law to the Emperor entitled him to conduct himself as if he, not I, ruled the Romans.

I dined with Philaretos and his family in the tribunal of the nineteen akkubita, a ceremonial hall that, Stephen the Persian assured me, had been built in the reign of Constantine the Great. The count of the walls was bluff and affable, his wife Marina plump and pleasant. Her father having lately died, she and my mother, who were about of an age, commiserated together.

Philaretos also had a couple of sons, one older than I, one younger. Neither of them said much; no doubt they had been told to keep their mouths shut unless I spoke to them. Beyond bare politeness, I did not. I was more interested in their sister.

Eudokia was close to my age: half a year younger, it turned out, when we compared birthdates. She was less lushly put together than Anna, but far from displeasing, unlike poor homely Zoe. Her hair was dark, like her father's, but showed little reddish glints when the lamplight shone on it. Her eyes were an interesting color, somewhere between brown and green; I wondered whether Philaretos or Marina had a Sklavinian or a German down near the roots of the family tree.

She said, "Thank you for inviting us into the city, Emperor. Because of my father's post, I come here less often than I would if I could." When she smiled- not brazenly, but not as if in apology, either- she showed good teeth. I liked her voice, too: not squeaky, not raspy, but smooth like well-aged wine.

"But do you come less often than your father would like?" I asked. "Out in Thrace, you have less chance to spend his money."

"If you marry her, Emperor, that'll be your worry, not mine," Philaretos said with a laugh: more than most men would have dared, sitting where he was.

"He'll be able to afford it better than you can, Father," Eudokia said, which was also daring- though certainly true.

The feast, and the talk afterwards, went on longer than they had when I was meeting Zoe or Anna. The servants kept bringing in wine, and we kept drinking it. Philaretos did a hilarious impression of a Bulgar with a hangover. Even my mother and his wife, in mourning though they were, laughed till they had to hold on to each other to stop.

When, sometime close to midnight or perhaps after it, we rose from the table, Eudokia said, "Thank you again for inviting my family and me here, Emperor. I enjoyed myself."

I realized I had enjoyed myself, too. I had not particularly expected to; I had looked on the dinner as something I needed to do, not something I wanted to do. A woman with whom I could enjoy myself- if that was not a recipe for a wife, what was?

My mother was in a sour mood the next morning, probably from too much wine and not enough sleep. "Are you trying to imitate Philaretos's Bulgar?" I asked, and won from her half a smile. Then I said, "Of the three of them, I choose Eudokia."

That did lighten her mood. "Oh, good," she said. "I hoped you would, but I wondered if you would rather have Anna because of her looks. Not that Eudokia isn't a nice-looking young girl," she added hastily, as if afraid she might make me change my mind.

"I like the way she smiles," I said.

"The night I met your father, I was too nervous to smile," my mother said; by the look in her eye, that night was very close to the present in her mind. "He forgave me." She seemed to come back to thinking about me. "May God grant you and Eudokia many years, many children, and much happiness." She crossed herself. So did I.

God has His own purposes. He must weigh the happiness of my family against other matters in His scales, and find it comes to not so much. Of course, He has all of His plan before His eyes at all times, where for us humans it unfolds bit by bit.