by Jack Ludlow
‘Why are they allowed to be as they are?’
‘Why does the sun rise of a morning, Flavius?’ Petrus whispered as the praying ceased and a commanding voice spoke out.
‘Sad as this day is, it falls to us to have a concern for the public peace.’
‘Urban prefect,’ Petrus whispered. ‘He will have to deal with any trouble.’
Next came another voice, hoarse but firm. It took a few seconds for Flavius to recognise it as that of Amantius, it being so very much stronger than what he had heard in that cubicle. He now knew the man’s official title to be that of Magister Officiorum, the functionary who controlled access to the Emperor when he held an assembly to hear complaints and grievances.
As such he was a real power, for he could deny as well as grant an audience, which explained all that gold Flavius had collected from his villa. The best way to get through his screening was to bribe him. It also gave reason to his concern on who should succeed: he wanted to keep his place, and if anything, enhance it as the power behind the throne.
‘We are all aware that to delay in naming a successor to Anastasius, God rest his soul, is to invite disorder.’
‘The palace will be secure,’ Justinus said, his brisk military timbre easy to recognise. ‘The order would have gone out as soon as our loss was known.’
‘Then we know it will be so,’ said Amantius in what seemed a bit of a purr. ‘There is not one of us present, who make up the council, who has not deliberated in private as to who should succeed our late master.’
That got a murmur of agreement from a goodly number of throats. The whole body that had made up the council of Anastasius, senators all and the holders of the great offices of state, the men who controlled the vast bureaucracy of empire, were in the room.
‘It does not fall to me by right, but I now ask if any of us present have a candidate.’
‘Hypatius,’ came a loud cry, to be met by howls of derision, the names of Probus and Pompeius greeted in like fashion, with one weak-voiced senator pointing out that if their own uncle had not thought his nephews fitting for the highest office then who were they to disagree, only for Amantius to respond.
‘He did not name them as his successors, that is true, and I can now reveal to you all what was imparted to me in confidence, which is the one quality he did not apply to his nephews. He had no faith in their ability to rule and feared for the empire in their hands.’
Various voices spoke up, other names were mentioned, to be cast aside either in loud defamation or after a quiet and serious discussion.
‘He’s playing a fine game,’ Petrus hissed, ‘but he must declare soon.’
Which Amantius did, naming Theocritus, commander of the Scholae Palatinae, as a man not only fit for the office but, vitally, able to muster support from his own body of troops as well as the Excubitors, they having been canvassed by a person in whom he reposed great faith.
‘How do you know that to be true?’ Justinus demanded. ‘I have no knowledge of this.’
‘Trust me, Comes, I do.’
It was a telling point to Flavius, given what he knew about the Excubitors, for the men that this Theocritus led enjoyed scant regard from the body of which he was a part. Originally raised as an Equestrian bodyguard for the Emperor, and it had to be admitted at one time a potent force, the Scholae had over time descended into an organisation stuffed with privileged young men, the sons of the wealthy members of the Patrician and Equestrian classes, peacocks more interested in appearing martial than being effectively so. To anyone seriously military they were nothing but a mounted, prancing joke.
Not so to Amantius, who was praising them to the heavens, as if they alone had the power to save the empire, and naturally the man who led them was a paragon. After a long and heartfelt paean of praise, what he said to follow did induce surprise.
‘I hope the council will not take it amiss that I have Theocritus standing by. I also know that he is willing to accept the diadem and he has assured me that what offices we hold now and who holds them will not be altered.’
The voice became louder and almost imperious. ‘Order is too important.’
Even Flavius could see the sense of that last ploy; it would not only be slaves and servants wondering about their future prosperity; every high courtier, in receipt of great wealth, would be likewise troubled given their entire existence was by imperial favour.
‘If it is agreeable to you present I would ask that he be allowed to attend upon us and make his case.’
‘You have been presumptuous, Amantius.’
This full-throated objection from a man identified by Petrus as the Master of the Largesse – the official who disbursed the empire’s income throughout the various Themes and Dioceses, it being interesting to measure the number who agreed with him, which seemed to Flavius a great deal less than the number present. The look Petrus gave Flavius then was like that of a lion who had found a fresh kill.
‘It is about to get interesting.’
CHAPTER SIX
When he spoke again Amantius, having faced some very vocal opposition, was beginning to sound desperate; did his assurance of military support from the two bodies of troops tasked to defend the person of the Emperor count for nothing?
‘Do not rank the Scholae Palatinae alongside my Excubitors,’ Justinus protested. ‘I will not have it.’
‘I do not mean to denigrate your fine men, Comes, but to include them. Theocritus has promised to be generous to all who aid him.’
‘Aid which I have yet to see proof of.’
‘Believe me it is there.’
What followed was a plea for understanding for what could only have been quite a complex conspiracy: to get upon his side two such military bodies had to take months of subterfuge and secret gatherings and it could not be done without the disbursement of a great number of bribes and even more promises of gold to come, a fact obvious to everyone present, even if none referred to it.
‘Since I cannot aspire myself, I have sought a solution which will be swift and orderly. Do not deny to me that every mind in this room had pondered the problem and discussed it. If you cannot put forward a name it is because you cannot agree on one. Theocritus is my candidate, he has military backing and he is popular with the mob as well.’
‘The Blues, certainly. The Greens will howl if he is raised.’
‘Urban prefect again,’ Petrus whispered unnecessarily; the man had a distinctive voice.
‘It is not the prerogative of either,’ Justinus insisted, his irritation obvious.
What followed was much disordered discussion, voices rising and falling, senators speaking over each other, the odd loud disagreement, with the tone of the Magister Officiorum growing increasingly desperate.
‘A day to think upon it, Amantius?’
‘You risk mayhem.’
‘Better that than a terrible error.’
‘Let Theocritus make his case.’
The cry of ‘tomorrow’ came from many a voice.
Petrus snorted a sort of laugh as he moved into the open doorway, partially followed by Flavius, to whom he said, ‘They are now about to find out that they are not the people to decide.’
All that got was a confused look before Petrus spoke in a loud voice to the whole room which now lay open before him. ‘Eminences, forgive me that I interrupt your deliberations, but there is a delegation waiting to make representations to you regarding who should hold the office of emperor.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Flavius heard the furious question from Justinus but it was the murmuring from his rear that took his main attention. Turning he saw gathered in the antechamber all the senior commanders of the Excubitors, the four tribuni, a dozen centurio, while behind them stood a good half of their inferior unit commanders, all of whom had come to where they now stood in such silence they had not been heard.
Petrus turned and gestured forward the senior men, most looking determined, one or two looking
troubled, which was as nothing to the faces of the senators, for these Excubitors were fully armed. The most senior tribunos and second in command to Justinus, Galataeo the Thracian, stepped forward to speak, to tell these senators that, respectfully, the Excubitors would accept no other person to be crowned with the diadem other than their own commander, the comes Excubitorum.
‘And that is the view of you all?’ asked Petrus, ignoring the shock this produced on the face of Justinus, to get as response a full-throated roar of approbation from a room full of Excubitors, that is except from Flavius and the man himself; Justinus now looked both confused and embarrassed as his nephew looked at him.
‘Uncle? The diadem is yours to take.’
‘I cannot accept.’
What followed was a military chorus of ‘You must!’ and one Flavius suspected had been rehearsed
‘I demand you deny this, Justinus,’ Amantius cried, his objection somewhat diminished by his hoarse tone of voice; he was about to say more but the sound of swords being half-dragged from scabbards stilled him and it was not only he who took a hasty step back.
‘My Lord,’ Galataeo said, addressing Justinus, ‘there is only one honest man in this room and that is you. We will not follow another and I can assure you the people of the city will welcome your elevation, for it is not only those who serve under you who esteem your probity.’
‘Fine words,’ said Amantius.
‘And true,’ claimed the urban prefect, in a meaningful aside.
‘Please,’ Justinus protested, embarrassed at such praise, unware that his reaction only proved it to be true.
‘Where is Theocritus?’ demanded the eunuch.
‘In your quarters, Amantius, and safe.’
There was no need for Petrus to add it was there he would stay or that any attempt by him to leave or to extract him would bring about a bloody demise.
‘Flavius,’ he said as a quiet aside, ‘take your men and fetch the chests of gold.’
Doing as he was bid, Flavius heard the opening of Petrus’s declaration, which was that Amantius had sought to embroil him in a conspiracy to grant the throne to Theocritus. If increasing distance denied him the rest it mattered not, for the first declaration set up a furious buzz and this from hypocrites who had all probably been at the same game in varying degrees and with other players.
When he returned, the chests borne by four of his Excubitor rankers, Petrus was extolling the virtues of his uncle while destroying the candidacy of not only Theocritus but the imperial nephews as well, with his uncle standing in deep thought. The chests were placed before the tribunos and centurios Excubitorum and at a command from the nephew of their commander the lids were thrown open to reveal their contents.
‘A reward from my uncle for your loyalty,’ Petrus cried.
Looking from one to the other Flavius saw the shock of Justinus, but more telling was the fury of Amantius to see his wealth used to elevate a man he had not chosen to be the next emperor. He was being cheered to the chamber ceiling and beyond as he was hailed by his Excubitors for his generosity in a way that brooked no refusal. Petrus had gone close to whisper, though given the noise of the soldiers discussing their reward and how they were going to spend it there was no need.
‘What better way, Uncle, than this, to secure the safety of you and yours? I think you will find the Hippodrome is full of the citizens and they will be eager to acclaim you. I took the liberty of fetching my Aunt Lupicina from my father’s house, who will enter the imperial box alongside you.’
‘It does not occur to you that many will ask how I, supposed to be so honest, gathered such a sum to bribe my own men?’
‘There is a tale to that and one which will make you seem both clever and prescient.’
‘One woven by you.’
‘For you.’
‘There is a part of Lucifer in you, Petrus.’
‘While you are too much the saint, Uncle.’
Many of the senators, cowed into silence and aware that to resist was to risk being killed – they would never accept that Justinus would not allow it for in their minds it would seem natural – had knelt to acknowledge the obvious. A trio, Amantius included, who no doubt feared for their heads even if they recognised Justinus, had actually prostrated themselves, which brought forth an angry bark.
‘Get up off the floor! This is the Roman Empire not Persia, you’re citizens not slaves.’
It was the first imperial command of Justinus and it was hurriedly obeyed.
‘Eminence,’ Petrus murmured, his voice silky, ‘we must proceed to the Hippodrome and before that you must be properly garbed as befits your station.’
At a signal the crowd of Excubitors parted to reveal a pair of Justinus’s own servants. One had across his lower arms a decorated gold and purple cloak, the other the high and jewel-encrusted imperial diadem, both so recently the property of Anastasius.
The reply came with a deep sigh. ‘You have arranged even this. Robbed a dead emperor of his possessions.’
‘To avoid bloodshed, Uncle, it seemed apposite.’
‘And your aunt?’
‘Will be wearing suitable garments. She and you must appear before the mob as an imperial couple. Flavius take the chests to my uncle’s quarters. The distribution can take place tomorrow as long as this day is a peaceful one. Galataeo, is all secure?’
‘Word was sent by the praefectus urbanus to his troops to secure the Hippodrome and streets around as soon as he knew Anastasius was dying and this has been done. But fear not, Petrus Sabbatius, we Excubitors will make sure nothing happens to our new emperor.’
‘Good. Please send a body of men ahead to line the imperial box.’
‘I will lead them personally.’
The whole of the capital had been on edge for days now and if many had continued to toil, others had taken advantage of the tension to become idle, and naturally it was they, surely the least trustworthy citizens of the empire, who got to the Hippodrome first, to fill in anticipation the best seats as news of the death of Anastasius seeped out.
By the time a still reluctant Justinus, accompanied by Lupicina, who had also pressed him to accept, entered the covered passage that led from the palace to the imperial enclosure the place was packed to more than capacity and the noise of the gathering was like some buzzing swarm of distant hornets.
Petrus had been master of ceremonies from the very beginning of the day’s events and he was not about to relinquish the lead position until he had to. He organised the way matters would proceed, and anyway, nothing could happen until the Patriarch of Constantinople, done with saying prayers for the soul of Anastasius, was informed of the new dispensation and sent ahead to bless the crowd.
When all was ready, Petrus, a man usually indifferent to his clothing, went ahead wearing a costume of shimmering black silk covered with silver devices that, once he encountered sunlight, flashed its reflections in all directions. His task was to prepare the multitude through rhetoric. The Excubitors, parade dressed and spick with it, marched out to take up guard positions at key points, a clear message that any dissent would be met with retribution.
Others lined the covered way, all eyes raised so as not to impiously stare at their new imperial master, each spear cast to the salute as he and his consort passed. Behind them came Flavius Belisarius, his sword in one hand, full infantry shield in the other, his task to act as personal protector of the imperial personages, a signal honour.
Justinus now wore a purple cloak sewn with a ransom in gold thread and on his head sat a wreath of laurels, the sign for centuries of a conquering Roman hero. The nerves he had evinced earlier – these emerged when he had finished berating Petrus for his devilish machinations – seemed to have morphed into a sort of stupor of acceptance. Lupicina, despite an encouragement that might have carried the greatest weight with her husband, was trembling like a leaf in the wind, for if her spouse had been close to imperial ritual and understood it, the same clearly terrified her.
The panegyric of Petrus, as he sang the praises of his uncle, was often drowned out by the sound of mob approval, for what had been said in the council chamber was not false. Justinus was seen by the citizens of the metropolis as less venal than those alongside whom he carried out his duties. The reign of Anastasius as far as the city was concerned had been relatively peaceful, even if General Vitalian and his Rebels of Chalcedon had visited a trio of ineffectual sieges upon its walls.
As in every polity there were the ever-malcontents, those who hated imperial rule whoever was the occupant, prepared to make their opinions known with loud booing and catcall insults. But they were a minority amongst a citizenry that wished for order so that prosperity could be pursued. Only when these citizens were troubled did an emperor have concerns about the public peace; if they became riotous, then apprehension turned to deep alarm.
They wanted an emperor and if the men who had served Anatastius had, as far as they knew, agreed on a candidate quickly, as well as one of whom they could openly approve, then they were happy. There was, too, the knowledge that old Anastasius, who had taxed vigorously and spent sparingly, would have left full coffers and some of that would surely be distributed to the populace.
Behind the imperial party stood all the high officers of state, Amantius included, and if his face was that of a man who had swallowed a wasp, others were inclined to keep hidden any feelings they had, of either joy or the reverse. Given how they must have so recently schemed, Flavius wondered if such a trait could be put in abeyance when matters were seemingly resolved. That he doubted it made him feel sympathy for the man he was now protecting.
The next act overseen by Petrus involved the production of the imperial diadem, gold-encrusted with diamonds, as well as the consort’s less splendid crown, both borne onto the imperial viewing podium on a pair of purple cushions to be raised and shown to the audience. They fell silent as the Patriarch began to intone the prayers of blessing, their loud noises replaced by whispered and individual prayers. That done, the diadem was presented to the comes Excubitorum.
