by Ross Laidlaw
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 you
rselves 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.
** 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.
FOUR
She was extremely clever, and had a biting wit, and she soon became popular
as a result
Procopius, Secret History, c. 560
Seated in Cyrene’s theatre beside her ‘patron’ — Hecebolus, governor of Libya Pentapolis — Theodora was hot, bored, and uncomfortable. The parasol held above her head by a slave was scant protection against the fierce African sun, as was the silk cushion against the hardness of the marble tier. And the play — Antony and Cleopatra, penned by an influential friend of Hecebolus with literary ambitions, which the governor was paying to produce, was unbelievably tedious, portraying Antony (who in real life, as everyone knew, was a loveable hedonist) as a stage villain of the deepest dye, who must be brought low for the crime of heaping disgrace upon the name of Rome.