Justinian

as guilty as he who steals the entire contents.’ This last statement was delivered in a spray of spittle, a peculiarity which had earned Olympius the soubriquet, Aspergillum — the Holy Water-Sprinkler — and was the reason why the two front rows of the lecture hall were always empty for his sessions.

Chatting noisily, the class dispersed via the main entrance, Olympius departing through a small door behind the rostrum.

‘Any budding Ciceros in this year’s class?’ enquired Demetrius of Olympius. The two old friends were strolling in one of the shady colonnades in the university precincts. Demetrius — once a humble grammaticus teaching sons of the aristocracy in the Palace School — had risen, through sheer drive and talent, to occupy the university’s Chair of Rhetoric.

Olympius shook his head. ‘No such luck, I fear. You know how it is with younger sons — the Army, the Law, the Civil Service; at a pinch, the Church. Hardly calculated to inspire a sense of vocation.’ He paused, then added thoughtfully. ‘But I’m forgetting; there is a student who shows exceptional promise. One Petrus Sabbatius, a truly remarkable young man. Arrived in the capital from some God-forsaken provincial backwater, speaking hardly any Greek. Then, three years later, on leaving the Palace School as its top scholar, enrolls at university. Quite the most ambitious student I’ve ever had to deal with. Hungry for success — to a degree that’s almost frightening. Not in the least pushy or arrogant, though. Just quietly single-minded.’

‘Sounds too good to be true. I can’t imagine that being so brilliant makes him liked, though.’

‘There you’d be wrong. He is popular with most of his fellow students; he’s gathered quite a following, in fact, who seem to hang on his every word. Plenty of female admirers too. Hardly surprising; he’s looks to die for — like an Apollo by Praxiteles. But they’re wasting their time where he’s concerned.’

‘You’re suggesting he may have the Greek vice — as in Plato’s Symposium?’

Olympius laughed. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just that he’s too focussed and driven to have any time for romantic distractions. Now, keep this to yourself; despite resembling your archetypal Greek god, young Petrus doesn’t have a drop of Hellenic blood in his veins. I have it from a friend at court that he’s a Goth. Nephew of General Rodericus, Commander of the Imperial Guard.’

‘Well, if he hopes to make his mark, he’s going to need all that determination you say he possesses. As we know, being German is a massive handicap to a career inside the Empire.’ Demetrius’ expression softened. ‘I taught Theoderic, you know. My star pupil at the Palace School when, as Crown Prince of the Ostrogoths, he was a hostage here in the capital. He’s doing well for himself — now. King of Italy and vicegerent of Emperor Anastasius. But getting where he is today — that was a titanic struggle that would have crushed a lesser man. It’s a fact of life: to get anywhere, a German has to show he’s at least twice as good as a Roman. We don’t discriminate against other races. Why, we’ve had emperors who were Spaniards, Gauls, Africans, Illyrians, even an Arab. But never a German. “Discuss” — as one might say to one’s students.’

‘Not so surprising when you think about it,’ observed Olympius. ‘Caledonians apart, the Germans were the only people in Europe that Rome never succeeded in conquering. And in the end, it was those same Germans who defeated Rome. West Rome, that is. Romans — West and East, find that hard to forgive. However, despite inheriting his people’s legacy of fear and hate, I’d be surprised if our young friend Petrus doesn’t go on to distinguish himself. And sooner rather than later, would be my guess.’

In the gymnasium of the university’s baths, a vigorous bout of harpastum — a ball-game between two rival teams, was in progress.

‘Catch!’ Valerian sent the ball spinning in a low curve above the heads of the opposing team, towards his team captain and friend, Petrus, who had craftily managed to position himself near their opponents’ goal area. Reaching up, Petrus grabbed the ball before other grasping hands could close on it, weaved between two hefty opponents converging on him, and planted the ball securely in the scoring circle. Before the two teams could take up their positions for the next round, the arbiter called time, declaring Petrus’ team to be the winner. A triumphant cheer burst from the throats of the victors.

As the players headed towards the bathing suite to cleanse themselves before reclaiming their shoes and clothes from the receptacles where they had been stored prior to the game, Petrus — the congratulations of his team-mates ringing in his ears — had never felt happier. His mind flashed back three years, to the day when the news arrived that was to change his life. .

Soon after the incident which had ended tragically in the death of Atawulf, a squadron of cavalry from Constantinople had arrived at the family home, bearing, besides a letter from Roderic — Uprauda’s uncle and his mother’s brother — an iron strong-box. Bigleniza’s hopes had at last come true. Thanks to recent promotion, Roderic was able to offer his nephew an education at the Palace School, the finest scholastic establishment in the capital. The strong-box contained a generous lump sum in golden solidi, sufficient to enable his parents to see out their declining years in comfort, when they became too old to work the land.

Rome and Constantinople in the sixth century

Uprauda’s sorrow on parting from his parents — especially Bigleniza to whom above all he owed this change in his fortune — was offset by excitement at the prospect of the glittering new life he was about to embark on, and which seemed to embody the promise of all his secret aspirations.

‘Make us proud of you, Uprauda,’ were Bigleniza’s parting words, as he prepared to depart with the soldiers on the long journey to Constantinople.

Never would he forget that first sight of the city that was to become his new home: the colossal triple walls of the second Theodosius, studded with massive towers, striped with reinforcing bands of brick; beyond lay columns, domes, cupolas, without number, and, rising above all, the topmost arches of a mighty aqueduct. Entering the city from the south-west via the Golden Gate, they proceeded along the principal thoroughfare, the Mese, through the four great fora of Arcadius, the Ox, Theodosius, and Constantine, past the Hippodrome and so to the Palace — a collection of magnificent but ill-assorted buildings sprawling downhill to the Propontis.* Here he was introduced to his uncle and benefactor, Roderic, a kindly bear of a man, gruff and unpolished, but in his manner showing a hint of underlying warmth.

In the course of the journey to the capital, by talking with his escort, Uprauda had gained a smattering of Greek — enough foundation for him, as a pupil in the Palace School, to acquire a rapid mastery of the first language of the Empire. Furnished with a new Roman name — Petrus Sabbatius — he underwent a remarkable metamorphosis. A poised and confident young Roman gentleman quickly displaced the Gothic peasant lad. Popular, charismatic and ambitious, a promising future seemed assured for the young man when he entered Constantinople University. The venerable but creaking edifice of Roman Law was ripe for reform; here, surely, was a worthy challenge, to which he could profitably devote his energies, justifying his uncle’s generosity, and fulfilling his mother’s parting wish. A project which Petrus Sabbatius, but not Uprauda, was capable of tackling. .

‘Catch!’ In a savage parody of the pass which had secured Petrus’ team’s victory at harpastum, the captain of the opposing team, Nearchus, sent something skimming through the air at Petrus. Startled out of his reverie, Petrus failed to react in time, and cried out in shock and pain as the object struck him on the temple. The missile dropped to the bath-house floor — it was Petrus’ own shoe.

‘Butterfingers!’ sneered Nearchus, in tones of unmistakeable hostility. A tense silence spread throughout the bath-house, as the teams realized that Nearchus’ action was no mere expression of innocent horseplay, but stemmed from some deep, and hitherto latent, feeling of malice towards his fellow student.

Having attracted an attentive audience, Nearchus, his heavy features clouded with dislike, went on to address it. ‘See Golden Boy here,’ he jerked his chin at Petrus. ‘Top of the class, ace games player, the lecturers’ favourite student. Well, don’t be fooled. Petrus Sabbatius is a fraud. I’ve been doing some digging and it turns out that that’s not his real name — it’s Uprauda Ystock. He’s a Goth. From the same race of yellow-haired brutes we chased out of the city a hundred years ago, and who’ve been a thorn in the flesh of the Empire ever since. Want to know more? This paragon, who thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us, turns out to be a nobody from a hick village in Dardania. Worse than that: our imposter friend here is the son of a slave.’ Nearchus looked round at the ring of thunder-struck young faces and grinned triumphantly. He turned to stare at Petrus. ‘Come on then, Golden Boy,’ he taunted. ‘I dare you to deny that anything I’ve said is true.’

Dumbfounded and dismayed by this unprovoked onslaught, Petrus crumbled. Where had this flood of vicious