Justinian

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 yourselves 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?