Justinian

TWO

‘. . so in conclusion,’ pronounced Olympius, holder of the Chair of Law at Constantinople University, ‘our judge, having heard all the evidence for the defence and for the prosecution, must make his judgement. How is he to do this?’ Inviting a response, his gaze swept round the crowded tiers.

‘The Law of Citations would require him to consult the findings of the jurisconsults* in similar cases, and follow the verdict of the majority,’ eventually suggested an intense-looking youth.

Olympius nodded approvingly. ‘Correct — as far as it goes. But let us speculate the following: Gaius and Papinian pronounce a guilty verdict, Ulpian and Paulus one of innocence, with Modestinus abstaining. A tie, in other words. What then?’

The low buzz of speculation that followed, accompanied by shrugs and head-shaking as students conferred, gradually petered out. Then the silence was broken by a tall young man with calm grey eyes. ‘Papinian would have the casting vote, Magister. The judge would be compelled to give a guilty verdict.’

‘Well done, young Petrus!’ enthused the other. ‘You’ve been reading up your Responses, I see.’ Once again, his eyes swivelled round the benches. ‘As should the rest of you,’ he added, with mock severity. The doctor swept up his scrolls and codices. ‘Next time, we shall examine what Trebatius terms the Equality of Crime. For example: he who takes a handful of grain from a sack of corn is just as guilty as he who steals the entire contents.’ This last statement was delivered in a spray of spittle, a peculiarity which had earned Olympius the soubriquet, Aspergillum — the Holy Water-Sprinkler — and was the reason why the two front rows of the lecture hall were always empty for his sessions.

Chatting noisily, the class dispersed via the main entrance, Olympius departing through a small door behind the rostrum.

‘Any budding Ciceros in this year’s class?’ enquired Demetrius of Olympius. The two old friends were strolling in one of the shady colonnades in the university precincts. Demetrius — once a humble grammaticus teaching sons of the aristocracy in the Palace School — had risen, through sheer drive and talent, to occupy the university’s Chair of Rhetoric.

Olympius shook his head. ‘No such luck, I fear. You know how it is with younger sons — the Army, the Law, the Civil Service; at a pinch, the Church. Hardly calculated to inspire a sense of vocation.’ He paused, then added thoughtfully. ‘But I’m forgetting; there is a student who shows exceptional promise. One Petrus Sabbatius, a truly remarkable young man. Arrived in the capital from some God-forsaken provincial backwater, speaking hardly any Greek. Then, three years later, on leaving the Palace School as its top scholar, enrolls at university. Quite the most ambitious student I’ve ever had to deal with. Hungry for success — to a degree that’s almost frightening. Not in the least pushy or arrogant, though. Just quietly single-minded.’

‘Sounds too good to be true. I can’t imagine that being so brilliant makes him liked, though.’

‘There you’d be wrong. He is popular with most of his fellow students; he’s gathered quite a following, in fact, who seem to hang on his every word. Plenty of female admirers too. Hardly surprising; he’s looks to die for — like an Apollo by Praxiteles. But they’re wasting their time where he’s concerned.’

‘You’re suggesting he may have the Greek vice — as in Plato’s Symposium?’

Olympius laughed. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just that he’s too focussed and driven to have any time for romantic distractions. Now, keep this to yourself; despite resembling your archetypal Greek god, young Petrus doesn’t have a drop of Hellenic blood in his veins. I have it from a friend at court that he’s a Goth. Nephew of General Rodericus, Commander of the Imperial Guard.’

‘Well, if he hopes to make his mark, he’s going to need all that determination you say he possesses. As we know, being German is a massive handicap to a career inside the Empire.’ Demetrius’ expression softened. ‘I taught Theoderic, you know. My star pupil at the Palace School when, as Crown Prince of the Ostrogoths, he was a hostage here in the capital. He’s doing well for himself — now. King of Italy and vicegerent of Emperor Anastasius. But getting where he is today — that was a titanic struggle that would have crushed a lesser man. It’s a fact of life: to get anywhere, a German has to show he’s at least twice as good as a Roman. We don’t discriminate against other races. Why, we’ve had emperors who were Spaniards, Gauls, Africans, Illyrians, even an Arab. But never a German. “Discuss” — as one might say to one’s students.’

‘Not so surprising when you think about it,’ observed Olympius. ‘Caledonians apart, the Germans were the only people in Europe that Rome never succeeded in conquering. And in the end, it was those same Germans who defeated Rome. West Rome, that is. Romans — West and East, find that hard to forgive. However, despite inheriting his people’s legacy of fear and hate, I’d be surprised if our young friend Petrus doesn’t go on to distinguish himself. And sooner rather than later, would be my guess.’

In the gymnasium of the university’s baths, a vigorous bout of harpastum — a ball-game between two rival teams, was in progress.

‘Catch!’ Valerian sent the ball spinning in a low curve above the heads of the opposing team, towards his team captain and friend, Petrus, who had craftily managed to position himself near their opponents’ goal area. Reaching up, Petrus grabbed the ball before other grasping hands could close on it, weaved between two hefty opponents converging on him, and planted the ball securely in the scoring circle. Before the two teams could take up their positions for the next round, the arbiter called time, declaring Petrus’ team to be the winner. A triumphant cheer burst from the throats of the victors.

As the players headed towards the bathing suite to cleanse themselves before reclaiming their shoes and clothes from the receptacles where they had been stored prior to the game, Petrus — the congratulations of his team-mates ringing in his ears — had never felt happier. His mind flashed back three years, to the day when the news arrived that was to change his life. .

Soon after the incident which had ended tragically in the death of Atawulf, a squadron of cavalry from Constantinople had arrived at the family home, bearing, besides a letter from Roderic — Uprauda’s uncle and his mother’s brother — an iron strong-box. Bigleniza’s hopes had at last come true. Thanks to recent promotion, Roderic was able to offer his nephew an education at the Palace School, the finest scholastic establishment in the capital. The strong-box contained a generous lump sum in golden solidi, sufficient to enable his parents to see out their declining years in comfort, when they became too old to work the land.

Rome and Constantinople in the sixth century

Uprauda’s sorrow on parting from his parents — especially Bigleniza to whom above all he owed this change in his fortune — was offset by excitement at the prospect of the glittering new life he was about to embark on, and which seemed to embody the promise of all his secret aspirations.

‘Make us proud of you, Uprauda,’ were Bigleniza’s parting words, as he prepared to depart with the soldiers on the long journey to Constantinople.

Never would he forget that first sight of the city that was to become his new home: the colossal triple walls of the second Theodosius, studded with massive towers, striped with reinforcing bands of brick; beyond lay columns, domes, cupolas, without number, and, rising above all, the topmost arches of a mighty aqueduct. Entering the city from the south-west via the Golden Gate, they proceeded along the principal thoroughfare, the Mese, through the four great fora of Arcadius, the Ox, Theodosius, and Constantine, past the Hippodrome and so to the Palace — a collection of magnificent but ill-assorted buildings sprawling downhill to the Propontis.* Here he was introduced to his uncle and benefactor, Roderic, a kindly bear of a man, gruff and unpolished, but in his manner showing a hint of underlying warmth.

In the course of the journey to the capital, by talking with his escort, Uprauda had gained a smattering of Greek — enough foundation for him, as a pupil in the Palace School, to acquire a rapid mastery of the first language of the Empire. Furnished with a new Roman name — Petrus Sabbatius — he underwent a remarkable metamorphosis. A poised and confident young Roman gentleman quickly displaced the Gothic peasant lad. Popular, charismatic and ambitious, a promising future seemed assured for the young man when he entered Constantinople University. The venerable but creaking edifice of Roman Law was ripe for reform; here, surely, was a worthy challenge, to which he could profitably devote his energies, justifying his uncle’s generosity, and fulfilling his mother’s parting wish. A project which Petrus Sabbatius, but not Uprauda, was capable of tackling. .

‘Catch!’ In a savage parody of the pass which had secured Petrus’ team’s victory at harpastum, the captain of the opposing team, Nearchus, sent something skimming through the air at Petrus. Startled out of his reverie, Petrus failed to react in time, and cried out in shock and pain as the object struck him on the temple. The missile dropped to the bath-house floor — it was Petrus’ own shoe.

‘Butterfingers!’ sneered Nearchus, in tones of unmistakeable hostility. A tense silence spread throughout the bath-house, as the teams realized that Nearchus’ action was no mere expression of innocent horseplay, but stemmed from some deep, and hitherto latent, feeling of malice towards his fellow student.

Having attracted an attentive audience, Nearchus, his heavy features clouded with dislike, went on to address it. ‘See Golden Boy here,’ he jerked his chin at Petrus. ‘Top of the class, ace games player, the lecturers’ favourite student. Well, don’t be fooled. Petrus Sabbatius is a fraud. I’ve been doing some digging and it turns out that that’s not his real name — it’s Uprauda Ystock. He’s a Goth. From the same race of yellow-haired brutes we chased out of the city a hundred years ago, and who’ve been a thorn in the flesh of the Empire ever since. Want to know more? This paragon, who thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us, turns out to be a nobody from a hick village in Dardania. Worse than that: our imposter friend here is the son of a slave.’ Nearchus looked round at the ring of thunder-struck young faces and grinned triumphantly. He turned to stare at Petrus. ‘Come on then, Golden Boy,’ he taunted. ‘I dare you to deny that anything I’ve said is true.’

Dumbfounded and dismayed by this unprovoked onslaught, Petrus crumbled. Where had this flood of vicious bile, like water cascading from a breached dam, come from? He looked round at the faces of those whom, up to this moment, he had imagined to be his friends. Where before he had seen — or thought he had seen, only expressions of warmth and camaraderie, now he seemed to detect doubt, and perhaps the stirrings of contempt. Perhaps, after all, he had been living a lie, his hopes and aspirations built on sand. Could a Goth — id est a despised barbarian, one moreover of slave origin — ever hope to be accepted into the magic circle of Roman society? A wave of disillusion and despair suddenly washed over the young man. Retrieving the fallen shoe, he grabbed its partner together with his clothing from a wall-niche, and hurried from the bath-house.

As if drawn by some force he was not consciously aware of, Petrus found himself heading blindly westward through the crowded streets. All around, the sights and sounds of the great metropolis assailed his senses: street-traders calling their wares, native Greeks, Jews, Syrians, hawk-nosed Arabs, Indians, black men from Axum* in the farthest south, mendicants rattling begging-cups, wealthy ladies borne in palanquins by sweating slaves, senators and civil servants riding mules or horses, off-duty soldiers in pillbox caps and undyed linen tunics with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder, swaggering supporters of the Blues circus faction* looking vaguely menacing in their adopted Hunnish guise of caftans and long hair. Somehow, all this pulsing life, which only yesterday had seemed familiar and reassuring, now seemed alien — all part of a world to which he no longer truly belonged. He passed beneath the towering arches of the Aqueduct of Valens, traversed the great artery of the northern Mese, and found himself at last in the Forum of Arcadius, confronting the tall column that rose in the middle of the square.

The monument showed, in an ascending spiral, a frieze of figures in violent motion. The subject seemed innocuous enough, until closer inspection revealed a chilling scene: fleeing Goths, identifiable by their long hair, being attacked by short-haired Romans wielding staves and cudgels. The work represented the violent expulsion from the city of its Gothic population a century before, an event in which several thousand Goths were massacred. Nothing could be plainer, thought Petrus: here, carved in enduring stone, was an official statement of the Roman attitude towards his people — as Germans, the Goths were the age-old enemies of Rome, with whom no accommodation could ever be permitted.

Despite his adopted Roman name, and his complete absorption into Roman culture, he would always be an outsider, Petrus told himself. His mother’s hopes, his uncle’s kindness, his own ambitions — all these had been for nothing. Better never to have left Tauresium, the home to which he must now return — a presumptuous barbarian who had got above himself, and been found out.

‘Thought I might find you here.’ Harsh and accusing, Valerian’s voice broke in upon Petrus’ reflections. ‘Wallowing in self-pity isn’t going to help, you know. By caving in to Nearchus like that, you’re admitting that he’s right about you.’

‘Well, isn’t he?’ cried Petrus bitterly. ‘I’ve been shown up for who I really am, that’s all. Let’s face it, Valerian — as a Goth, especially one tainted by slave parentage, I can never hope to fit in here.’

‘Listen to yourself!’ snapped Valerian. ‘Good God, man, where’s your self-belief? A man can be anything he wants to be, provided he has faith in himself. Paul was a Jew, but also proud to be a Roman. Emperor Vespasian was a mule-breeder before he joined the legions. Diocletian was of barbarian and slave stock, but that didn’t stop him becoming one of Rome’s greatest emperors. I could go on. .’

‘Then you, at least, are still my friend?’

‘I shan’t bother to answer that!’ Valerian’s voice was thick with scorn. ‘The others, too, will still be your friends — but only if you stand up for yourself. By running away, you’re simply reinforcing in their minds everything Nearchus has accused you of, letting him occupy the moral high ground. Square up to him, and all he’s said will cease to seem important. What it boils down to is this: your honour’s been challenged; what matters now is that you’re seen to defend it.’

‘But how? I’m hardly in a position to sue him for defamation; I’m still in statu pupillari as far as my uncle Roderic’s concerned, and anyway I wouldn’t want to drag him into this. Besides, what Nearchus says about me is factually correct.’

‘Come on, Petrus — you’re thinking like a Roman. This is your personal reputation we’re talking about. What would a Goth do?’

Petrus cast his mind back to the village community in which he had grown up. Though strictly speaking governed by Roman Law, the independent-minded Tauresians had tended to settle disputes in the time-honoured manner of their Gothic ancestors. There, a man showing weakness by allowing a challenge to go unanswered counted for nothing and soon became a social outcast. ‘Well, a man could always defend his honour,’ he suggested dubiously, ‘by arranging for a formal contest with his challenger to be held. It’s called Trial by Combat — God being the arbiter.’

‘In other words, a duellum — which, interestingly, is the archaic form of bellum. I like it — shades of Achilles versus Hector in the Trojan War! Hardly the Roman way of settling scores, but it’ll put that blowhard Nearchus on the back foot. Now you’re sounding like the old Petrus I was beginning to think I’d lost.’ Valerian grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘I know a little wine shop down by the Theodosius Harbour which sells some half-decent stuff. And it’s not mixed with resin. A cup or three of Nomentan will help us plan how we go about things.’

Something seemed to click in Petrus’ mind, resolving his sudden and most disturbing crisis of identity. For good or ill, he was now Petrus Sabbatius, a young Roman with a glittering future in the law — that was the path destiny had chosen for him. As for Uprauda, the Goth — he belonged firmly in the past, and there he must remain. ‘Thanks, Valerian,’ he said, feeling a surge of gratitude towards the friend who had enabled him to see things in perspective. ‘One thing that puzzles me — what has Nearchus got against me? And how did he come by his information? I’ve never, to my knowledge, done anything to harm him.’

Valerian laughed. ‘That’s irrelevant. You’re so green in some ways, Petrus. You’re popular, good-looking, and successful — everything that Nearchus isn’t. More than enough reason to make a second-rater with a chip on his shoulder like Nearchus green with jealousy. He’s got family connections with the present Master of Offices; hence access to confidential files as a result of a few palms being greased. His sort can only assuage their own pathetic little egos by bringing others down to their own level. Human nature is frail, my friend. For every Marcus Aurelius you get to meet in life, there’s likely to be a Caligula lurking in the background.’

‘As I was beginning to find out,’ concurred Petrus wryly. He smiled, and went on in lighter tones, ‘Right; let us sample the delights of this drinking-den of yours.’

Between the Walls of Theodosius and the original (and now partly dismantled) Walls of Constantine, stretched Constantinople’s western suburbs, a strange area whose vast spaces were patchily tenanted by monasteries, churches, market-gardens, and villas. Here were the city’s great cisterns — reservoirs, some open, some underground — dedicated to generals and eminent citizens (Aetius, Aspar, Mocius, et al.). One of these huge tanks, a subterranean one, the Cistern of Nomus (a brilliant Master of Offices at the time of the wars with Attila), had been chosen as the venue for the contest between Petrus and Nearchus. Regarding security and secrecy (the university authorities would certainly have intervened to prevent any public settling of scores) the choice of site was ideal. Access to the cistern was made available after receipt of suffragia or ‘sweetners’ by certain staff in the employ of the Department of Aqueducts and Sewers, controlled by the city prefect.

The announcement of the match — a wrestling competition — was intended, by throwing down a challenge to Nearchus, to vindicate Petrus in the eyes of his peers. In this it was totally successful. Greeted with huge enthusiasm by all who had witnessed the scene in the bath-house, the disclosure of the plan neatly turned the tables on Nearchus, who, wrong-footed and furious, had little choice but to accept the challenge. Petrus was accorded something like heroic status for showing great spirit and initiative in responding to intolerable provocation — a perception that was unlikely to change, whatever the outcome of the contest.

However, as the appointed time drew near, Petrus began to entertain serious doubts and fears about the whole scheme. Wrestling matches were no-holds-barred, often brutal affairs, with kicking, punching, biting, and even gouging all legitimate under the prevailing rules. Nearchus was not the sort of opponent to hold back from ‘playing dirty’ to gain an advantage. He, Petrus, could well end up permanently damaged or disfigured; the thought filled him with horror. More than once, the thought of calling the whole thing off crossed his mind, only to be rejected immediately; the resulting loss of face would cause irreparable damage to his reputation. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, a possible way out, shameful but irresistibly tempting, came to him. .

Petrus’ heart began to thump painfully as, accompanied by Valerian, he descended the steps leading down into the bowels of the cistern. Illuminated by torches in sconces, a scene of bizarre and gloomy grandeur revealed itself. Like a stone forest, hundreds of pillars topped by Corinthian capitals rose from the surface of what appeared an underground lake, to support the roof. Stepping into a punt moored at the bottom of the stairs, Petrus tightened his grip on the hard, round object in his right hand, fearful lest his sweat-slicked palm should allow it to slip. Poled by Valerian, the craft moved off between the pillars towards an ‘island’ composed of massive ashlar blocks, rising in the middle of the cistern. Petrus started at the sight of two vast, half-submerged Medusa heads, glaring balefully at him from the side of the landing-stage, their serpent-locks appearing to stir in the gently agitated water.

A short flight of steps took Petrus and Valerian to the top of the great platform which served as an anchorage for the boats of the inspection and maintenance workers, and a repository for their equipment. Today, it was ringed by those who had witnessed the scene in the bath-house, enclosing a space about thirty feet across. Clad only in his underwear, his second beside him, Nearchus was already waiting in the centre.

Stripping, Petrus advanced towards his opponent, his height and graceful build contrasting with the other’s squat, heavily muscled frame. Dismissing the seconds to the perimeter, the arbiter now stepped forward, positioning himself between the contestants. ‘No artificial aids permitted,’ he declared. ‘The first to force the other onto his back, wins.’ Moving aside, he called, ‘Begin.’

The two young men circled each other warily; then, with a speed and agility that belied his bulk, Nearchus, arms whirling, closed with his adversary in a weaving rush. Clapping a hand to his head, Petrus uttered a sudden, loud cry — and collapsed. Seconds and arbiter sprinted forward and bent over Petrus’ barely conscious form. ‘Foul play!’ declared Valerian, pointing to a discoloured lump visibly swelling on his friend’s forehead. Picking up a round stone that lay beside the prostrate Petrus, the arbiter concurred. Holding aloft the offending object for general inspection, he announced, ‘By employing a concealed weapon, Nearchus has flagrantly breached the rules of the contest. I therefore declare Petrus the winner by default.’

In vain, Nearchus angrily protested his innocence. If he’d really hit Petrus with a stone, he shouted, he’d hardly leave the evidence lying around. But it was no good; having already forfeited general sympathy, no one, it seemed, was now prepared to accord him credence. Shunned by his fellow students, he became an increasingly lonely and embittered figure at the university. Meanwhile, his victorious rival’s star continued to rise, Petrus’ popularity boosted by the face-off with Nearchus.

At night however, Petrus was increasingly troubled by a recurring dream from the past. It would start with the first sighting of that helmet, caught in a bush halfway up the cliff. Then, although knowing what was coming, he would struggle to regain consciousness, but the dream would progress with an awful inevitability: his agony of hesitation at the Bad Step; then Atawulf clinging desperately to the boulder; finally, his friend’s cry of terror as he lost his grip and went spinning into space. . Sweating and terrified, only then would Petrus awake. As if drawn by some strange compulsion, he would study his face in a looking-glass, and note, reflected back at him accusingly, a faint, star-shaped scar on his forehead — the brand of the coward. At such moments his confidence would drain away as he found himself wondering if, after all, Nearchus had been right: could a barbarian and the son of an ex-slave ever hope for real and lasting acceptance by the Roman world?

* The five leading Roman jurors in the past, whose verdicts were accepted as deciding precedent.

* The Sea of Marmara.

* Ethiopia.

* Their rival faction was the Greens. See Notes for Chapter 3.