Justinian

THREE

‘Petrus!’

‘Valerianus!’

The two friends (whose diverging paths after their student days ended fifteen years before, had prevented their meeting save on rare occasions) embraced warmly, at the Column of Marcian in the capital’s prestigious Eleventh Region — ‘Ta Ioulianes’. Valerian, now a junior general serving under the Magister Militum per Armenias (after having flirted briefly with a legal career), had suggested the rendezvous in a letter written from the front during the latest insurgency to break out in the Taurus Mountains.

‘First grey hairs,’ observed Petrus, as the pair took stock of each other.

The other grinned ruefully. ‘Those Isaurians could turn your whole head white. Persistent little buggers. We keep on beating them; trouble is, no one seems to have told them that.’ He studied Petrus with undisguised curiosity. ‘What’s with this fancy army uniform? I always thought you were a confirmed civilian, nose always stuck in a law book.’

Petrus gave a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘I’m a candidatus — an officer in the Scholae regiment. Strictly a parade soldier, I’m afraid. These days, I’m working more and more for my uncle Roderic, who’s Count of the Excubitors — which is a fighting unit. As he’s also a senator, I write his speeches for him and help him chair committees and dispense patronage — all of which he hates doing. He seems to think that a military uniform gives me a bit more clout. But I haven’t deserted the law; I’ve been working on a draft for a radical revision of our legal code — in fact, ever since ‘the Holy Water Sprinkler’ lectured us on Citations and Ius Respondendi.’

Valerian chuckled. ‘Dear old Olympius; he never did work out why those two front rows were always empty for his lectures.’ He paused and gave his friend a sly wink. ‘And how many female conquests has “the Adonis of Byzantium”, as the girls used to call you, notched up since we last met?’

‘Well — none, actually,’ admitted Petrus with a sheepish grin. Sex, in his opinion, was a vastly overrated pastime, involving an inordinate amount of time and energy which could more profitably be directed towards absorbing and worthwhile pursuits, such as the study of law and theology. He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I never seem to find the time,’ he added feebly.

Valerian sighed and shook his head in mock despair. ‘Perhaps you’ve missed your vocation, Petrus, and should have trained to be a priest.’ He eyed the other speculatively and chuckled. ‘Somehow though, I can’t imagine you with a beard. But why, I ask myself, are we standing here wasting valuable drinking time? Diogenes’ tavern awaits our patronage, my friend.’

That same morning — the fourth before the Ides of Julius in the year of the consuls Magnus and Anastasius Augustus,* an atmosphere of crisis, approaching one of panic, gripped the Palace. Grim-faced silentiarii — gentlemen-ushers, prowled the corridors in an attempt to prevent any leakage of security, while Celer, the Master of Offices, and Roderic, Count of the Excubitors, alerted the troops under their separate commands, swearing them to silence. For during the night, in the middle of a violent thunderstorm, Emperor Anastasius had died at the age of eighty-seven, designating no successor.

Which created a power-vacuum — an especially dangerous one. Ten days’ march to the north of the capital was an ambitious general, Vitalian, at the head of a powerful army of Goths and Bulgarians. Twice in the past five years he had tried unsuccessfully to topple Anastasius. At this present juncture, any delay in choosing a new emperor would hand Vitalian an opportunity to attempt a coup. Another potential rival for the purple was Hypatius, nephew of Anastasius and Master of Soldiers in the east. Based as he was at Antioch, it would take many days before news of his uncle’s death reached him, and at least an equal amount of time for him to march on the capital. However, as a potential player in the succession game, he most certainly could not be ruled out. Thus, the perfect ingredients for a bloody civil war had all come together at the worst possible conjunction.

It was therefore incumbent on Celer and Roderic, as the two ‘strong men’ in the capital, to take swift, decisive action to install a new emperor before Vitalian or Hypatius could enter the arena. Though speed was of paramount importance, the candidate for the purple must yet be chosen with the utmost care. He would have to be acceptable not only to the Senate and the Army, but most of all to the people — the volatile, strong-willed, and passionate citizens of Constantinople (whose views could be said to reflect in microcosm the opinion of the Empire as a whole), without whose approval no emperor could hope to keep his throne.

Eagerly exchanging reminiscences, the two men headed south into the Twelfth Region (less distinguished than the Eleventh, but still respectable), bound for the Harbour of Theodosius.

‘Phew! After campaigning in the highlands of Isauria, I’d forgotten just how hot the city gets in July,’ murmured Valerian, mopping his brow as they crossed the wide and crowded Mese, its arcaded sides filled with shops selling silks, jewellery, scent, and a hundred other luxuries. All around them swirled a dense mass of humanity, colourful, cosmopolitan: wealthy citizens bejewelled and dressed in the height of fashion, attended by a train of servants and hangers-on; members of the new order of patricians, distinguished in their white robes edged with purple; monks and bearded priests; off-duty soldiers; blue-eyed Germans, conspicuous by their fair hair and pink skins; peasants from the country, driving carts full of vegetables; Egyptian sailors on leave from the grainships of Alexandria; soberly clad merchants. .

A group of Blues supporters approached, everyone in their vicinity giving them a wide berth. On passing Petrus and Valerian however, they greeted the former with respectful salutations.

‘You’re not involved with that bunch of thugs, surely!’ exclaimed Valerian.

‘Purely on a business basis. Call it mutual back-scratching: I keep the city prefect’s police off their backs, in return, they employ, ah — “persuasion”, to expedite certain contracts for my uncle. You’ve no idea the amount of tedious bureaucracy you have to cope with if you go through the normal channels.’

‘You dark horse, you.’ Valerian shook his head, half in disapproval, half in admiration.

As the two threaded the narrow lanes of wooden houses leading to the harbour area, they became aware of a distant shouting coming from an eastern direction. It grew steadily in volume as it swept westwards through the city like an advancing wave. At last, what had at first been a confused babel of sound, resolved itself into intelligible phrases: ‘Anastasius is dead. . the emperor is no more. . our “little father” has been taken from us. .’ The efforts of the imperial staff to stop the news from getting out had failed — little wonder, considering that the Palace was not a single edifice but consisted of two dozen separate buildings: pavilions, banqueting halls, state rooms, offices, chapels, barracks. . Given such a scenario, total security was virtually impossible.

‘I must get back to the Palace!’ exclaimed Petrus, immediately aware of the potential crisis that the news would have precipitated. ‘As a member of the Scholae I’ll be expected; I’d have been there already but for the fact that, thanks to my uncle, I’m excused living in barracks. I just hope to God that Celer and uncle Roderic can keep a lid on things and instal a new emperor before Vitalian or Hypatius can stir things up.’ He smiled apologetically at his companion. ‘Sorry, old friend, our session at Diogenes’ will have to — ’ He broke off suddenly, his face turning ashen. ‘Listen!’

The rapidly approaching roar of the crowd had changed from a confused tumult expressing sorrow and consternation over the death of Anastasius to a rhythmic chant demanding its choice for a new emperor: ‘Rodericus Augustus! Rodericus Augustus!’

‘The fools!’ gasped Petrus, turning an anguished face to his friend. ‘My uncle can’t be emperor — he’d be totally out of his depth and never be able to cope.’

‘Too late — he’s been named. That means he’ll be seen as a rival for the purple by whoever else decides to throw his hat into the ring. And if he’s defeated. .’ Valerian gripped the other by the arm and stared bleakly into his face. ‘Well, we both know what that could mean.’

‘Blinding or death,’ whispered Petrus. ‘Oh God, Valerian, what a mess.’ He tried to think constructively but his brain refused to respond, his mind seemingly paralyzed.

‘Petrus — get a grip!’ shouted Valerian. ‘We can save your uncle, but only by making sure he becomes emperor. And that means acting, now!’

‘What, what must we do?’ Petrus’ mind cleared, but a sick, hollow feeling of dread began to grow inside him.

‘Go immediately to the Senate House, persuade the Senate that your uncle’s the best man to wear the purple. You know the sort of things you have to say; you’ve done the course in Rhetoric as part of your legal training. Meanwhile, I’ll go to the Hippodrome where the crowds’ll be gathering, try to whip up support for your uncle. If we can get the backing of the House and the people, the soldiers will likely follow suit. Right, let’s go.’ And the pair set off eastwards at a fast pace towards the huge complex comprising the Hippodrome, the Imperial Palace, the great church of the Holy Wisdom* — Hagia Sophia — and the Senate House.

Recognizing the nephew of the Count of the Excubitors, the porters on duty outside the great ivory-panelled doors of the Senate House admitted Petrus into the building. Inside, all seemed confusion, with anxious-faced senators in their archaic togas milling about, and talking in low, excited tones. Not having been primed to announce any bills or official business, Methodius, the Caput Senatus**, a stooped and venerable figure, hovered irresolutely before the rostrum. Only the Patriarch, Epiphanius, seated in his cathedra, aloof and splendidly garbed in his ecclesiastical robes, seemed unmoved by the occasion.

‘Ah, there you are Sabbatius,’ snapped Celer, the Master of Offices. Burly and bald, imposing in muscle cuirass of gilded bronze, the commander of the Scholae exuded authority and confidence. ‘Better late than never, I suppose. I was about to put my name forward as the most suitable replacement for our newly deceased emperor. As the nephew of General Rodericus — who is not without influence in the places where it counts — your support could be useful to me.’

Events had moved beyond his ability to influence them, Petrus told himself, mortified to realize that his chief reaction was a feeling of relief. With Celer about to enter the race, and no sign of Roderic in the chamber to contest him, the result was virtually a foregone conclusion. The nerve-racking prospect of having to address the Senate had evaporated. Then a hot flush of shame swept over Petrus. Even if it now came too late to achieve anything, it would be unforgiveable cowardice not to speak up for the man to whom he owed everything. Twice before, in circumstances forever branded into his memory, he had let cowardly self-interest dictate his actions. But not this time.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he heard himself say, ‘but I can’t support you. The people have started calling for my uncle. It’s him that I must help.’ He went on, a note almost of pleading entering his voice, ‘Surely you can see that, sir.’

‘I can see nothing of the sort,’ snorted Celer. ‘General Rodericus as emperor? The idea’s preposterous; he wouldn’t last a week. As for you, Sabbatius — may I remind you that as a serving officer under my command, it is nothing less than your plain duty to give me your backing. Refuse, and the consequences for your career will be extremely serious.’ And he strode off towards the Caput Senatus, with whom he was soon deep in conversation.

By the time Valerian reached it, half Constantinople seemed to have swarmed into the Hippodrome. Already, the crowds had split into two rival camps: one, egged on by the Greens, shouting for Celer to be emperor, the other, supported by the Blues, demanding that Roderic be chosen. Armed and armoured, the Excubitors and units from the Scholae regiments patrolled the expanses of the vast racetrack, modelled on the Circus Maximus in Rome.

Spotting Valerian, a harassed-looking Roderic, still upright and vigorous despite his sixty-eight years, marched up to him. ‘Thank God for a friendly face,’ declared the general. ‘I could use some help if things turn ugly. Those toy soldiers from the Scholae are deliberately siding with the Greens — turning a blind eye when Blues get roughed up, joining in when it’s the other way. And the Blues aren’t helping: whipping up support for me to be emperor. They must be mad. I’m the last person who should don the purple; I’ll have nothing to do with it.’

‘You may have to, sir,’ urged Valerian, who knew and liked the other, having once briefly served with him in Armenia in a border dispute concerning Roman and Persian zones of influence. ‘If Celer wins, to say nothing of Vitalian or Hypatius, you’ll be a marked man.’

‘You really think so? But the last thing I’d want to do is contest their claims. None of them has anything to fear from me.’

‘I know that, sir. And so do most informed people at the top.’ Valerian found himself having to shout above a rising clamour, as more and more people streamed into the Hippodrome. ‘But we’re talking here about ruthless, scheming men. In the event of any of them becoming emperor, their first priority would be to liquidate anyone who seemed to offer even the remotest threat to their position.’

‘I hear what you say,’ said Roderic, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. ‘But I’d be hopeless as emperor. Diplomacy, administration, legal problems, religious disputes — all that stuff’s completely beyond me.’

‘You’d have advisors, sir. Your nephew Petrus would steady the ship while you learned the ropes — forgive the nautical metaphors. He’s in the Senate House at this very moment, arguing your case. Anyway, you’d make a damned sight better emperor than any of those others, who’d only be in it for personal gain and power.’

‘Oh very well then,’ sighed Roderic resignedly. ‘Let’s go for it. Tell the Excubitors and their following that I accept.’

Minutes later, the triumphant Excubitors, in a gesture the Romans had adopted from the Germans, raised their commander on a shield for all to see. Such a powerful symbol had an immediate effect. Calls for Celer to be emperor began to falter then to die away, while shouts of ‘Rodericus Augustus!’ rose to a rhythmic, deafening din. Followed by an excited crowd, the jubilant Excubitors carried their leader out of the Hippodrome, and headed for the Senate House.

Banging his staff on the marble floor, the Caput Senatus called the House to order. Sensing that at last a significant development was in the offing, the senators fell quiet and took their seats.

‘Seeing that this is an emergency session of the House,’ quavered old Methodius, ‘the Patriarch and I have agreed to dispense with the customary prayers and preamble, and proceed straight away to attend to the urgent matter which has brought us all together: namely, the nomination of a successor to Anastasius of blessed memory, who sadly departed from us in the night. I now call upon Celer, Master of Offices and Commander of the Scholae Palatinae, to address the House.’

Celer stepped up to the rostrum and, head thrown back, seized the lectern with both hands — a gesture somehow conveying the image that here was a strong, capable man able to take charge, a safe pair of hands who could be trusted with the running of the Empire.

‘Romans, fellow citizens,’ Celer declared in ringing tones, ‘as a humble servant of our glorious republic, I would be found wanting in my duty if I were to stand aside at this most critical and dangerous of times, and fail to offer myself as choice of emperor. For that would be to leave the vacant throne to be contested by men who are unworthy to wear the purple. A would-be usurper, a weakling, and an incompetent — any one of whom would destroy our prosperity and sap our strength, undermining our ability to resist those enemies who threaten us on every side, just waiting to exploit the slightest signs of Roman weakness: Bulgars, Slavs, and Lombards to the north and west, Persians to the east, and, to the south, the savages of Aethiopia and Nubia.*

‘Let us look closely at these men who threaten to besmirch that most ancient and honourable title — Augustus Romanorum. First, Vitalian — a power-hungry opportunist who, on two occasions, sought to oust our beloved Anastasius, now sadly taken from us. Nor should we forget that Vitalian is a member of that ferocious and fickle race — the Germans. For more than five hundred years, the legacy of these barbarians for Rome has been aggression and bad faith. Arminius, Alaric, Stilicho, Gainas — all Germans who fought for Rome, all ending up betraying her. Can we expect different from Vitalian?’ Celer looked round the rapt faces of his audience. ‘I think we know the answer to that,’ he chuckled.

‘Hypatius? A career soldier, who only rose to his present position of Magister Militum per Orientem through the patronage of his uncle, the late emperor. His military record is hardly an impressive one — thrashed by Vitalian when, reluctantly, he was forced to take the field against him. So, if you want a broken reed for emperor, Hypatius is your man.

‘Finally, Rodericus.’ Celer paused and shook his head, his expression one of amused disbelief. ‘The man’s a joke, a semi-literate peasant who couldn’t even sign his name when first he arrived in the capital. As emperor, this doddering geriatric who should have been pensioned off years ago would have to deal on a daily basis with the complex departments of ministers and officials: the Count of the Domestics, the Master of Audiences, the senior clerks and their staff, the Counts of the Privy and Public Purses, diocesan and provincial governors. . to name but a small selection. As well expect an ape to understand a water-clock. I would also mention, should you need reminding, that Rodericus, like Vitalian, is German — a Goth and a barbarian. Enough said.’ Smiling, Celer bowed his head and, amid enthusiastic applause, returned to his place on the marble benches.

Taking Celer’s place on the rostrum, Methodius, the Caput Senatus, announced, ‘Unless anyone here present has anything further of substance to say, I suggest we proceed to nominate Celer as our choice of emperor, subject to ratification by the soldiers and the people. Accordingly — ’

Petrus, who, not being a senator had been forced to stand in a side aisle, raised his hand. In a voice he barely recognized as his own, he found himself saying, ‘As his nephew, I would like to speak on behalf of General Rodericus.’

A buzz of astonishment tinged with irritation swept round the chamber. Methodius regarded Petrus sternly. ‘A stranger in the House can have no leave to address this assembly,’ he declared in disapproving tones.

‘That depends,’ broke in a white-haired senator, rising. ‘If one of us is unable to attend a session of the House, he may, according to the Senate’s rules, delegate another to speak on his behalf.’ A murmur of agreement from the benches followed his remark.

‘Well, young man,’ snapped Methodius, addressing Petrus, ‘has the commander of the Excubitors appointed you his representative?’

‘Not exactly,’ faltered Petrus, beginning to sweat with embarrassment. ‘But only because he has not had any opportunity to contact me. As with all of you, this crisis has caught him unawares. I expect he felt he had to give priority to keeping order in the Hippodrome over coming to the Senate House.’

‘That’s as may be,’ replied Methodius testily. ‘But we cannot start bending the rules just to accommodate every change of circumstance. Permission to speak denied.’

‘Oh, come now — isn’t that a bit unreasonable?’ put in the senator who had spoken earlier. ‘It would appear that General Rodericus is unselfishly putting the public good above his own interests, thus preventing him from attending this unscheduled meeting in his role of senator. Must he be penalized for that, through slavish observance of a procedural nicety?’

A growing groundswell of assent arose: ‘A fair point. . Let the nephew have his say. . What difference can it make?’

Methodius banged his staff for silence. ‘Oh, very well,’ he declared with a hint of exasperation. He called to Petrus, ‘The floor is yours, young man.’

Feeling like a condemned prisoner walking to the place of execution, Petrus advanced to the rostrum. Self-conscious in his drab undress uniform, and aware that he must be the youngest person in the chamber, he faced the rows of white-clad senators, their faces etched with experience, expectant, critical. A sudden wave of panic swept over him; he felt his mouth dry out and his palms begin to sweat. For a terrible moment his mind went blank and he felt unable to speak. Then the words of Celer’s sneering denigration of his uncle — the man whom he loved and respected above all others — seemed to sound in his brain, dissolving his mental paralysis and replacing it with indignation.

‘What the Magister Officiorum has told you concerning Vitalian and Hypatius may well be true,’ Petrus began, speaking slowly in order to gain time to marshall some sort of argument. ‘I myself am not sufficiently informed to judge. But in seeking to cast a slur on the name of my uncle, General Rodericus, he not only dishonours the traditions of his office, which have always stood for probity and fairness, but slanders a good and loyal servant of the Empire.’ Growing anger over the injustice of Celer’s attack on Roderic welled up inside him. His training in rhetoric warned him to be careful; properly harnessed, anger could lend force and conviction to a speech; unrestrained, it was likely to destroy it, by causing incoherence and diffusion of focus.

‘Cast your minds back, if you will,’ Petrus continued, choosing his words with care, ‘to the year of the consul Paulus,* when East Rome faced perhaps the most terrible threat in her history, a danger greater even than that posed by Attila — the conquest of the Diocese of Oriens and that of Egypt, by the Persians: half the Empire’s territory. With the imperial armies tied down in Isauria, all that stood against a vast Persian host was a tiny force of limitanei under my uncle’s command. Faced with such overwhelming odds, most generals would, without dishonour, have opted for a tactical withdrawal. Not Rodericus. Knowing the tremendous issues that were at stake, he took on the Persians, and — through a combination of coolness, courage, and inspired leadership — inflicted on them a crushing defeat.’

Suddenly, out of nowhere it seemed, a daring thought occurred to Petrus. He had done his best to rehabilitate his uncle in the minds of his audience. What if, at the same time, he were able to inflict a telling blow against Celer — one that would damage his credibility? It would mean taking a colossal risk, and, however it turned out, making of Celer an enemy for life — a powerful, dangerous, and unforgiving one. Petrus hesitated, aware that he had arrived at a personal Rubicon. .

One of the strengths of the imperial bureaucracy was its openness and comparative accessibility. Armed with a permit from the appropriate official, Petrus had often had occasion to search state records on behalf of his uncle, in the latter’s capacity of senator. The year of the consul Paulus had been memorable, not only for Roderic’s defeat of Tamshapur, but for an exceptionally poor harvest, leading to bread rationing in the capital. Significantly, it was from this time that Celer’s name had begun to appear in the records of various scrinia or state departments, especially those of the Comites Sacrarum Largitionum and Rei Privatae: the Counts of the Public and Privy Purses, respectively. Over the years, Celer’s promotion in these two departments had been steady if hardly rapid, progressing from palatinus or clerk, to committee secretary, to comes commerciorum or customs officer, to curiosus of the cursus publicus — inspector of the public post. Transfer to the Scrinium Officiorum, had seen his rise from agens in rebus,** via Magister Admissionum or Master of Audiences, to his present position of Magister Officiorum — the most powerful post in the Empire, barring that of the emperor himself.

In the course of his researches, Petrus had taken no particular note of Celer’s name — just one among many others. But his legal training and search work had developed to an extraordinary degree Petrus’ powers of selective recall, so that at any given moment he could summon in his mind sections of documents he had studied in the past, and visualize particular names included therein. Before Paulus’ consular year, the name of Celer had nowhere appeared in the records; after it, hardly a year had gone by but Celer’s name had featured. Something, Petrus reasoned, must have happened in that particular year to cause a dramatic improvement in Celer’s fortunes. To obtain a post in the civil service, money, influence, or exceptional talent were necessary to obtain a foothold on the ladder. Celer’s family was neither wealthy nor distinguished, and Celer himself, while competent enough, was of no more than run-of-the-mill material. Payment of suffragium — a ‘sweetener’ to cover the going rate for purchase of a post — was virtually standard practice; though strictly speaking illegal, it was widely connived at. However, to ensure that the administration maintained its efficiency, a formal examination ensured that only candidates of sound ability were accepted. All of which suggested to Petrus that Celer had suddenly come into funds in that particular year — enough to enable him to secure a post in the administration. With the sort of instinct that had often enabled him to surmise a defendant’s guilt or innocence in advance of the verdict, Petrus knew where those funds must have come from — speculation in grain!

Petrus could imagine a grubby little scene: an ambitious young Celer (penniless but with a network of shady contacts) arranging a deal with the skipper of one of the grain ships from Alexandria — a scheme that would make them both rich. A consignment of ‘spoiled’ grain would be transferred to one of the state warehouses (whose supervisor would naturally receive a generous sportula or tip), then sold on to a starving populace at inflated prices. .

All these reflections raced through Petrus’ mind in seconds. His heart thumping painfully, he wet lips that had suddenly gone dry.

‘Honourable members of this great Assembly,’ he declared, ‘I have but one more point to make. Ask yourselves this: when my uncle was risking his life to save the Empire from the Persian threat, and the poor of Constantinople were clamouring for bread, what was Celer doing that enabled him suddenly to acquire great wealth?’ His tunic drenched with sweat, walking stiffly to conceal the trembling in his legs, Petrus left the rostrum and returned to his position in the aisle.

A thunderous silence filled the Senate House. In an agony of suspense, Petrus waited for the angry denunciations that Celer would be bound to utter, if his, Petrus’, implied indictment should be false.

At last, the charged hush was broken by Celer. ‘If the best that this young man can do to vindicate his uncle is to bandy about wild accusations aimed at myself,’ he blustered, with a nervous laugh, ‘I suggest that we ignore him.’ As a riposte, it lacked force and all conviction. Petrus sagged with relief as he realized his gamble had paid off. Celer dare not take him to task for fear that Petrus was in possession of knowledge which would enable him to make damaging disclosures. The fact that Petrus had no proof of any wrongdoing on Celer’s part, was obviously something that the Master of Offices could not risk assuming. His failure to challenge Petrus amounted to an admission, in effect, that he had something to hide.

The atmosphere in the Senate House had subtly changed, the altered mood manifesting itself in a ripple of claps, which — mingled with cheers, gradually swelled to a sustained ovation. He had won, Petrus realized with a sense of wonder. There had been great gaps in his speech, he reflected: for example, he hadn’t actually proposed that Roderic should be emperor; nor had he replied to Celer’s charge that Roderic, as emperor, would have been unable to cope. (With hindsight, he told himself that he could have countered this charge by pointing out that he, Petrus, with his familiarity with the workings of the imperial bureaucracy, could have managed the administration while his uncle grew into the job.) But none of these omissions seemed to matter now.

As the cheering gradually subsided, a distant clamour could be heard that, gradually approaching, resolved itself into a rhythmic shouting: ‘Rodericus Augustus! Rodericus Augustus!’ Methodius signalled that the doors of the chamber be opened, whereupon, borne by his Excubitors upon a shield, General Roderic entered the Senate House, to be greeted by acclamations from the senators.

The Excubitors formed a protective screen around their commander who, when they stepped aside, was revealed clad in a purple robe — an impressive figure with his height, breadth of shoulder, and mane of grizzled hair. The Patriarch now stepped forward and, placing the imperial diadem on the general’s brow, announced in ringing tones, ‘Behold your new Augustus, henceforth to be known as “Justinus”, signifying “most suitable” — a fitting appellation for one who has served his Empire so honourably and so well.’

Looking happy and at the same time slightly bewildered, the new emperor held up his hand to stem the storm of applause that followed the Patriarch’s address. ‘Noble senators of New Rome,’ he declared, in a voice hoarse with emotion, ‘my given name is Roderic which, in my own tongue means “of good report” — a designation I have always tried, though doubtless often in vain, to live up to. But I gladly now surrender it for the one you have honoured me with, since, by the choice of the soldiers, the people, and now the Senate, it would appear that you have chosen me “most suitable” to wear the purple. Accordingly, I pledge that I will always strive my utmost to justify your trust, and to keep you in all prosperity.’

Somewhere, he had heard that a man had only so much courage, Petrus (ensconced in a quiet corner of the Palace gardens to collect his thoughts) reflected later. Like a sum of money placed for safe keeping in a goldsmith’s vaults, you could draw upon it only so many times before it was exhausted. How much of that deposit had he used up in the Senate House today? he wondered. And how much of it was left? Enough to enable him to cope with the tremendous demands that would, from this time on, be made of him? For it was beginning to dawn on Petrus just how momentous was the change that, thanks to the events of the past few hours, had been wrought in the circumstances of his uncle and himself. Suddenly and without warning, Roderic (whom he must now start thinking of as ‘Justin’), a tough and experienced old soldier but a child in the sphere of high politics, had become the most important person in the Roman world. Which meant that he, Petrus, by virtue of his being his uncle’s right-hand man, was now the second most important! But was he equipped to rise to this stupendous and quite terrifying challenge? Petrus cast his mind back a decade and a half, to when he had completed his studies at the university. .

Somewhere along the way, his career had stalled. The brilliant and ambitious young embryo lawyer with bold plans to reform the whole vast structure of the Roman legal system, had somehow drifted into becoming a dilettante-scholar who had allowed his interest in theological studies to take precedence over his legal goals. A desire to help his uncle cope with his senatorial duties had enabled him to follow up an academic interest in archives* and the machinery of state administration, without the inconvenience of actually having to work for any department. Happily absorbed in these researches, he had hardly noticed as his twenties slipped into his thirties; then suddenly early middle age loomed just ahead, causing Petrus to sit up and take stock. A frank session of self-analysis and self-assessment had left Petrus with a vague feeling of failure and frustration. His life (its material wants looked after by his uncle) was comfortable and pleasant, and not without a certain modest standing, which was boosted by the cachet of his (albeit virtually honorary) military rank. But what had he actually achieved in life? ‘Make us proud of you,’ had been his mother’s parting words. But could he, in all honesty, say that he had done so?

Now however, through a turn of Fortune’s Wheel, all aspects of his curriculum vitae to date, Petrus realized, constituted the perfect set of qualifications for him to become plenipotentiary for his uncle, in his capacity of emperor. Petrus’ intimate knowledge of the workings of state departments put him in an ideal position to check the pulse of the administration and, where necessary, apply corrective measures. And now that, through his uncle, he had access to the levers of executive power, he could at last entertain realistic hopes of being able to implement his cherished schemes of law reform. Also, his interest in theology would help him to take up the vitally important role of mediator in the conflict between the two opposing Christian creeds within the Empire. These were: the Chalcedonian, which held that Christ had two natures, both human and divine; and the Monophysite, which believed that Christ had but one, divine, nature. Unresolved, these differences (such was the central importance they assumed in people’s minds) had the power to bring about a damaging schism, which could split the Empire into two mutually antagonistic camps.

A sobering consideration now occurred to Petrus. Roderic (no — Justin, he corrected himself) was sixty-eight. His successor, therefore, could reasonably be expected to ascend the throne in the not too distant future. And, Justin being childless, that successor (barring some unforeseen accident) would, Petrus realized with a shock, be him! Though no longer a prerequisite, military experience was always a distinct advantage for anyone aspiring to the purple. So, even though in Petrus’ case this was limited to largely ceremonial duties, the fact that he had held an army rank would count in his favour regarding his acceptability as Justin’s heir.

Bent on some official errand, a silentiarius came by. Noticing Petrus, he paused and bowed, murmuring a deferential, ‘Illuster,’ as he passed. Yesterday, he had been just a plain Roman citizen, Petrus reflected. Today, through some strange constitutional alchemy, he had become one of the Illustres — the highest grade of Roman society! Feeling oddly disorientated, Petrus told himself that he was still the same person. Yet he knew that in some indefinable way this was no longer quite the case, and that his world would never be the same again.

* 10 July 518. The entry in the Fasti was later modified to show that Anastasius had died that same year — which began on 1 January with the naming of the consuls.

* Not the present Hagia Sophia which was consecrated in 537, but a rebuilding of 404 of Constantine’s fourth-century church. It was in this building that the marriage of Justinian and Theodora took place in 525

** The Head of the Senate: in Westminster terms, something between the Speaker and the Father of the House.

* Northern Sudan.

* AD 496. See Prologue.

** Agentes in rebus (a catch-all title) were imperial agents with wide-ranging executive or inspectorial powers, covering anything from diplomacy to spying.

* The state records were housed in an extraordinary complex — beneath the arches supporting the stands of the Hippodrome! In Rome, a similar ‘World-below-the-Arches’ was the milieu of a colourful under-class: entertainers, snack-vendors, jugglers, prostitutes, pimps et al.