Justinian (6 page)

‘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.

The Emperor Caesar Justin . . . assuming empire by universal choice. . .it is
our care . . . to keep you in all prosperity

Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus,
On the Ceremonies of the Court
, c. 950

‘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.