Justinian

MYAKES

Do you know, Brother Elpidios, I wouldn't have minded so much if Justinian had decided to live out his days on the far side of the Black Sea. I'd be there yet, I expect, probably not working so hard now. I'd be an old man there, s ame as I am here, but I'd have my eyes, and that wouldn't be so bad. Like as not, I'd be sitting in a wineshop, or maybe out in front if the weather's fine like it usually is up there, and I'd watch the pretty girls go by. Every now and then, somebody'd ask me to tell a story of Constantinople, and folks would go ooh and ahh, and they'd buy me more wine. Doesn't sound so bad, does it?

Justinian might still be there, too- you never can tell. He'd be ugly, no doubt about it, but Kherson's not a big place. People would be used to him by now. Once you've seen somebody every day for years, what he looks like doesn't matter so much. He'd just be old Justinian, who used to be Emperor. And the stories he could tell- I'd have listened to those myself.

But that's not how things happened. They could have, easy enough, but they didn't. And so Justinian's twenty years dead, and I'm here, an old blind monk. You can't tell beforehand, Brother Elpidios. Only God knows beforehand, and He never, never, lets on.