Justinian

bile, like water cascading from a breached dam, come from? He looked round at the faces of those whom, up to this moment, he had imagined to be his friends. Where before he had seen — or thought he had seen, only expressions of warmth and camaraderie, now he seemed to detect doubt, and perhaps the stirrings of contempt. Perhaps, after all, he had been living a lie, his hopes and aspirations built on sand. Could a Goth — id est a despised barbarian, one moreover of slave origin — ever hope to be accepted into the magic circle of Roman society? A wave of disillusion and despair suddenly washed over the young man. Retrieving the fallen shoe, he grabbed its partner together with his clothing from a wall-niche, and hurried from the bath-house.

As if drawn by some force he was not consciously aware of, Petrus found himself heading blindly westward through the crowded streets. All around, the sights and sounds of the great metropolis assailed his senses: street- traders calling their wares, native Greeks, Jews, Syrians, hawk-nosed Arabs, Indians, black men from Axum* in the farthest south, mendicants rattling begging-cups, wealthy ladies borne in palanquins by sweating slaves, senators and civil servants riding mules or horses, off-duty soldiers in pillbox caps and undyed linen tunics with indigo government roundels at hip and shoulder, swaggering supporters of the Blues circus faction* looking vaguely menacing in their adopted Hunnish guise of caftans and long hair. Somehow, all this pulsing life, which only yesterday had seemed familiar and reassuring, now seemed alien — all part of a world to which he no longer truly belonged. He passed beneath the towering arches of the Aqueduct of Valens, traversed the great artery of the northern Mese, and found himself at last in the Forum of Arcadius, confronting the tall column that rose in the middle of the square.

The monument showed, in an ascending spiral, a frieze of figures in violent motion. The subject seemed innocuous enough, until closer inspection revealed a chilling scene: fleeing Goths, identifiable by their long hair, being attacked by short-haired Romans wielding staves and cudgels. The work represented the violent expulsion from the city of its Gothic population a century before, an event in which several thousand Goths were massacred. Nothing could be plainer, thought Petrus: here, carved in enduring stone, was an official statement of the Roman attitude towards his people — as Germans, the Goths were the age-old enemies of Rome, with whom no accommodation could ever be permitted.

Despite his adopted Roman name, and his complete absorption into Roman culture, he would always be an outsider, Petrus told himself. His mother’s hopes, his uncle’s kindness, his own ambitions — all these had been for nothing. Better never to have left Tauresium, the home to which he must now return — a presumptuous barbarian who had got above himself, and been found out.

‘Thought I might find you here.’ Harsh and accusing, Valerian’s voice broke in upon Petrus’ reflections. ‘Wallowing in self-pity isn’t going to help, you know. By caving in to Nearchus like that, you’re admitting that he’s right about you.’

‘Well, isn’t he?’ cried Petrus bitterly. ‘I’ve been shown up for who I really am, that’s all. Let’s face it, Valerian — as a Goth, especially one tainted by slave parentage, I can never hope to fit in here.’

‘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