by Marié Heese
Justinian was one among many people waiting for word of the Emperor’s condition. A young man of peasant origin, he had been brought to Constantinople by his uncle Justin, who formally adopted him and had him properly educated. A brilliant and indefatigable student, he was even at this crucial time in his office, engaged in his work. His self-appointed task was to collect and study the many laws that governed the great Empire of Byzantium, but it was a tedious and complicated task. He sighed, rubbing his broad forehead. He was faced with two laws that seemingly contradicted each other. Would he ever make sense of this mass of abstruse legalese?
A soft knock at the door made him look up.
“Enter,” he called.
The door opened just enough to let Narses slip through; then he closed it firmly.
“Ah,” said Justinian. “Is it time?”
Narses nodded. “The Emperor is dead.”
“No word of a successor?”
“No word. There were many witnesses.”
“They will be streaming into the Hippodrome soon,” said Justinian. He stood up, resplendent in his white uniform, and began to buckle on his sword. He topped the small messenger in his mouse-coloured tunic by a head.
“Amantius has a scheme, as we anticipated,” Narses informed him.
“And of course you know what that is?”
“Of course. I have many ears, as you are well aware.”
“Yes. Well, since he cannot sit upon the throne himself, one must assume that he has a suitable successor in mind. Suitable from his point of view, that is. Supremely biddable.”
“Theocritus,” said Narses.
A startled laugh greeted this name. “You cannot be serious!”
“Believe it.”
Justinian said: “Amantius outdoes himself. A complete non-entity!”
“True. But of impeccable lineage. An ancient patrician family. A profile that will look perfect on a minted coin. Superb seat on a horse.”
“And less brain than the horse he sits upon,” sneered Justinian. “Also unutterably lazy, and vicious to boot.”
“Yes,” agreed Narses. “But Amantius knows just how to control the fellow, with an endless supply of opium and young boys. He aims to reign by proxy. It will be disastrous.”
“The army will never accept it. To be ruled by a diarchy of a eunuch and a pederast! Never! We shall have civil war.”
“It must not be allowed to happen,” said Narses emphatically.
“Your plan?”
“He will seek to bribe a key official, will Amantius. I shall whisper in his ear that the peasant Justin is a greedy man who has influence with the excubitors but no principles.”
Justinian gave a loud guffaw. “My uncle! Oh, you are a prize conspirator!”
“I have my moments,” said Narses, a touch smugly.
“The very man who should ascend the throne!” Justinian said. “In my opinion.”
“Indeed he should. But others will be considered first. Hypatius, for example.”
“The Empire cannot be entrusted to Hypatius,” Justinian said scornfully. “A military man with a career undistinguished by a single victory. A coward and a fool. What if Vitalian should once again attempt a coup?”
“What if, indeed. Certainly your uncle is a far better choice.”
“But will the Great Electors suggest his name?”
“Not at first. They are sure to argue over a number of possibilities. Meanwhile, you must play upon their fears by managing events in the Hippodrome. Put up a number of unsuitable candidates. Create an atmosphere of danger.”
“Amantius’s bribe will come in handy in achieving that,” said Justinian, looking amused.
“Precisely. Then Justin’s supporters among the senators can press his case, to avoid the coronation of a totally unsuitable person. If his name comes from the Electors, their authority, together with the certain support of his fellow-excubitors, will suffice to overcome objections from the Scholarian Guards.”
“It may well work. But first we must set a trap for the Grand Chamberlain. I’ll arrange for my uncle to meet Amantius in the small cabinet near the throne room. Several excubitors can hide behind the curtains, to witness the attempted bribe, and take Amantius prisoner.”
“Excellent. I’ll make the suggestion regarding the bribe while you inform your uncle and organise the witnesses.”
“As good as done.”
With the Grand Chamberlain and his co-conspirator efficiently removed from the scene and consigned to the palace dungeons, and after judicious application of the confiscated bribe, Justinian was free to make his way to the Hippodrome. Together with another bodyguard, he went to inspect the Kathisma, the balcony linked to the palace, to ensure that no hidden danger lurked, and then took up a vigilant position at one end while his partner stood at the other, keeping watch. He folded his arms and stared out across the colossal circus.
It was completely packed; not only was every single seat taken, but the U-shaped race track itself was occupied from side to side; people had piled onto the spina that ran down the middle as if it were a raft, some even shinning up the column ending in triple serpent’s heads, which glittered in the sun. The stairs to the tiered seats were full, the upper wall completely hidden by standing observers. Only the Kathisma still had space – the space that would be taken by the new emperor as he was presented to his people.
The tension and excitement outdid even that of the final race of the season between two champion charioteers. A hum threatening to become a growl resounded in the vast arena. The people wanted a name; they wanted an emperor. A basileus. They wanted to cheer and toast and celebrate a new beginning. They wanted to know whose hand would hold the helm. Uncertainty shimmered in the air, creating possibilities like a mirage. There might be blood. There might be civil war. Rumours ran around, growing fatter like scavenging rats. The Emperor had named someone. He had not. There was a will, with a name. No, there was not. It would be – surely must be – Hypatius. No, Pompeius was a better man. Or Probus, he was the youngest nephew but the ablest.
Impatiently, they waited for The Name to reach the Ivory Gate. But the Great Electors clearly could not agree, for no name was forthcoming. The expectant citizens were massed shoulder to shoulder, sweating in the sun. A woman with an eye for an opportunity was selling plaited grass hats. Vendors of bread stuffed with slices of roast pork did a roaring trade. Some buskers with a flute, a drum and a sistrum played a selection of the marching songs beloved of the soldiers.
Then someone began a chant, and the drum thumped along emphatically: “Long live the Senate! Senate of the Romans, tu vincas! We demand our emperor, given by God, for the army! We demand our emperor, given by God, for the world!”
In the triclinium, the huge Hall of the Nineteen Couches, the Great Electors had assembled, and had been arguing to and fro for several hours. Atop white pillars ranged against brilliantly coloured frescoes the marble heads of emperors long gone to dust watched sightlessly, as the fates of the citizens and, in particular, the future of some key players in the current drama bobbed up and down on the tide of rhetoric.
The Patriarch had urged calm and rationality and Christian for-bearance as his ecclesiastical duty demanded, to no avail. Matters had become heated. Tempers boiled. The oldest senator now had the floor: a small man with a wispy beard and an unexpectedly stentorian voice, he was exhorting the Electors to come to a decision.
“My fellow-electors! This cannot continue all day! We must have an emperor! We must agree, honourable co-electors, we must agree!”
Narses was leaning against a pillar, watching and listening. Beside him stood the Master of Offices, a tall eunuch named Celer. “A pity Hypatius is such a patently useless blob,” muttered Celer behind his hand. “Else had we long since appointed a successor to old Odd-eyes.”
“True,” murmured Narses. “Yet Pompeius is no great improvement, and the pick of the bunch is away on campaign.”
“Pity,” said Celer. �
��Although, as the youngest, it would be hard to urge Probus’s claim over that of his two elder brothers.”
“You have heard the tale of Anastasius’s attempt to have the fates reveal which of his three nephews should be his successor?” enquired Narses.
“No, do tell?”
Another senator had arisen to extol the virtues of the candidate he most preferred, even though all present had heard his arguments before. He seemed to think he could wear his hearers down by sheer persistence.
“He invited the three to dinner,” explained Narses in an undertone as the harangue went on. “When they were all in town. Under one of three cushions dispersed on the couches, he put a scrap of paper on which he had written ‘Regnum’.”
“Ah! And which one leaned on it?”
“Not a one,” said Narses. “Hypatius and Pompeius shared a cushion. Probus took another. There the fateful pillow lay, unclaimed.”
Angry protests were being hurled at the speaker who held the floor. The two eunuchs ignored the quarrelling.
“And so?”
“And so, Anastasius prayed fervently for a sign. It was revealed to him that the person who should follow him upon the throne of Byzantium would be the first person to enter his bedchamber on the following morning.”
“One trusts it was not a junior chamberlain,” snorted Celer.
“No. It was the Commander of the Excubitors,” said Narses.
Celer’s arched eyebrows indicated doubt. “Justin? An illiterate peasant? Are you serious?”
“Perfectly serious,” said Narses. “A mature man, his leadership and valour proven. Shrewd and able. Not as illiterate as he would have you think. It’s an old trick, to make one’s opponents under-estimate one. You should never, ever make the mistake of under-estimating him. He could rule.”
Celer’s smooth and beardless face was thoughtful. “A compromise candidate. Well, well. We could do worse.”
“Much, much worse. He has presence, and he lacks powerful enemies.”
“True,” muttered Celer, and bent to rub a gouty toe that had been causing him agony throughout the protracted discussions. He wished they would come to a point, so that he might go and soak his painful foot in a hot mustard bath. “Things could get ugly between the excubitors and the scholarians.”
Now a supporter of young Probus arose, to make an urgent plea against rude objections.
“The excubitors would be delighted to see their commander crowned,” observed Narses. Capable and experienced troops, both men knew, whose backing was of far more value than that of the mostly ornamental Scholarian Guards.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Celer. “The troops respect him, with good reason.” He cast his calculating mind over the career of the man who, during the reign of Anastasius, had served in the Isaurian and Persian wars. He had, the Master recalled, distinguished himself particularly in the repulse of Vitalian, when that Goth commander had marched upon the capital at the head of 50 000 men. Yet Celer frowned, wrinkling his nose. “You do realise,” he enquired, very softly, “that the coronation of Justin would entail raising to the purple a former slave and concubine? Lupicina – pah! The very name smacks of the whorehouse!”
Narses nodded. “But she has become Euphemia. And extremely proper. My dear friend, rather a reformed whore as empress than an irredeemable fool as emperor. A fool cannot reinvent himself as a man of sense and intellect.”
Celer sighed. “You are right. If the Electors do not agree on someone soon, I believe I should put forward a new name.”
“Perhaps you should,” agreed Narses. “The people have been clamouring at the Ivory Gate. They grow impatient. If the Green and the Blue factions put up rival candidates, there could be riots. Even …” He leaned closer. “A military coup. You know that Vitalian lurks with his Goths but a ten-day march from here.”
The Master blanched. “Dangerous times,” he muttered. “Dangerous times.” He limped forward and called for the attention of the irascible, squabbling crowd. With his elegantly robed long limbs he cut a commanding figure. “Honourable Electors,” he began. His light, fluting voice quickly quelled the agitated hubbub. “As Magister Officiorum, I must insist …”
Incongruous, thought Narses, for a man of Celer’s age, status and undoubted guile to have such a luminously innocent skin.
In the Hippodrome the people were growing tired of waiting. Leaning forward, Justinian caught the eye of a muscular excubitor on duty beneath the Kathisma. He gave the sign they had agreed upon earlier, when money had changed hands. The man nodded and stepped forward into the bright sunlight.
“We will choose!” he bellowed. “Let us choose!”
This cry was taken up and rolled around the vast circus. “We’ll choose! Let the people choose!” The excitement was growing into a frenzy. The same excubitor yelled again: “We propose John the Giant, Tribune of the Excubitors!” Six sweating men raised the candidate on a shield, to be greeted by both howls and cheers. His name was mooted at the Ivory Gate, and his supporters demanded that the chamberlains waiting on the other side deliver the Imperial robes. But without word from the Electors in the palace, the chamberlains refused.
Besides, the Blues were outraged by this proposal. His supporters were all Greens – they could never be allowed to make their man Emperor. The Blues scrabbled along the edge of the racetrack for stones, and hurled them at the luckless pretender, who smartly got under the shield instead of on top of it. Matters threatened to get out of hand, but the excubitors on duty around the perimeter of the track laid hold of a frantic Blue leader and one of them stabbed him with a short sword. Seeing him subside in a pool of blood, his followers calmed down, if only temporarily.
Next the scholarians roared the name of their candidate: Claudius Tullius Strabo, patrician and Master of the Soldiers! Again both cheers and howls. His name was carried to the Ivory Gate, the chamberlains were importuned; again, they were obdurate. No word from the palace, no Imperial robes.
Besides, the excubitors were adamant: he was persona non grata. They would not have him. They bellowed their objection. They shook their swords. There would be blood.
Round about now, thought Justinian, Narses in the palace would be insinuating the name of Justin into the deliberations of the Great Electors, whispering it into the ear of, perhaps, the Patriarch, who would fear civil riots. Or the Master of Offices. It would be taken up by those senators who could be depended on to support Justin and echoed by those that he, Justinian, had bought. His uncle was a good compromise candidate: sixty-six years old, conservative, blunt and decisive. A seasoned soldier. Though he was, admittedly, of peasant origin, he had been given senatorial rank. He was electable.
At that moment, one of the excubitors caught sight of Justinian standing in the Kathisma. He pointed with his sword and howled the name: “Justinian! Justinian for Emperor! Justinian!”
More cheers than howls greeted this proposal. But Justinian was aghast. This was not part of the plan. This was utter folly. This was a slippery slope to doom. He would never be accepted by the Electors, no matter how much the mob bayed his name. His uncle would consider it rank treachery. He stood to lose his head, not gain a crown. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no! He shook his head violently, miming refusal, since his voice could not be heard in that furious uproar. He broke into a sweat of visceral fear.
Just then, there was a flurry at the back of the Kathisma. Several musicians marched in. Strident trumpets sounded their peremptory call, piercing the raucous cacophony. A pause. All eyes swerved to the balcony. The Patriarch John, hair and beard white against his golden vestments, entered through the Ivory Gate. That could only portend that the Electors had made their choice.
A hush fell on the vast assembly. Justinian exhaled, trembling in every sinew. A few moments more, and he would have been hauled off to the dungeons by his fellow-candidati, protecting the new incumbent of the throne. He mopped his brow.
The Patriarch had turned away, to welcome the approaching monarch
, hidden for the moment by flanking functionaries. Who was it? Justinian closed his eyes. A thunderous roar went up. The Hippodrome reverberated. He opened his eyes again.
There before him in the Kathisma stood his uncle, clad in the richly purple Imperial robes. The Emperor elect raised his hands and bowed his head. An even louder roar. He gestured for silence. Trumpets brayed once more. At last the crowd quietened down, allowing the Emperor elect to address the people through his mandator, a man trained to address huge crowds.
“We have been elected to the throne by the favour of the indivisible Trinity,” Justin announced. “By the choice of the highest ministers of the Sacred Palace and of the Senate. Now, what says the army?”
The army, present in tens of thousands, went delirious. “Justin! Justin! Justin!” they chanted in unison. He was one of them. He was a soldier, and one that had their admiration and respect. They wanted him to be their emperor. “Justin!”
He acknowledged their support with another bow. Then he turned to face the Patriarch, who had taken the crown, proffered by an usher, from its velvet cushion; he knelt to allow the ornately jewelled diadem to be placed upon his head. Then he stood to receive the blessing. He accepted the symbolic lance and shield. Sunlight glittered on the polished metal, with as much brilliance as it cast upon the triple-headed serpent on the spina. Again he turned to face the populace, who set up a new roar, rhythmically punctuated by the drum and a hundred thousand stamping feet: “Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us! Ba-si-le-us!”
Praise be, thought Justinian, heaving a huge sigh of relief, it was done, and it had been done expeditiously. His uncle would reign. It boded well for his own ambitions.
So, said the small eunuch to himself, listening to the roar on the far side of the Ivory Gate, it had been done. His own role had been almost invisible, and that was the way he wanted it to be. Doubtless Justinian would soon enjoy promotion: Count of the Domestics, probably. It would be useful to have such a friend at court. As for Amantius and Theocritus, he would not give two denarii for their lives.