Justinian

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