‘They cannot all be thieves.’
‘They are.’
‘Do you see good in anyone?’
‘What I see is what I see,’ was the enigmatic reply.
As if it had been preordained, that was followed immediately by the sound of wailing, low to begin with but rising to a keening crescendo over a very short period.
‘Now the real adventure begins.’
Petrus stood and indicated that Flavius should follow him. With the armed men he led at their back, they made their way towards the imperial apartments, passing any number of sobbing slaves and servants, even the odd official, not that the sight of such distress seemed to affect Petrus, who now had a knowing smile on his face, as irritating as it was mysterious.
There was no doubt that a great deal of planning had gone into what was now happening, but to what end? The drinking companions of Petrus knew what tasks they had to perform without Flavius having to say a word, and what did sealing the palace imply? A threat, but from whom? At the great double doors to the suite of Anastasius stood two Excubitor rankers, spears at the ready, with eight more present and fully armed. It took a quiet conversation and order from the officer who commanded them to allow Petrus and Flavius entry and they had to part from their own escort.
‘No longer needed,’ Petrus said. ‘The only armed man in here is Justinus.’
The set of rooms was spacious, many chambered and endless, but they were empty and silent, all the close retainers and body slaves of Anastasius having been ejected, the only sound to emerge as they passed through various rooms being that of the priests praying and singing for the soul of the departed, which rose to be clearly audible as they passed the imperial bedchamber.
They carried on until they were outside the private council chamber, the place where decisions were taken by the Emperor and his closest advisors in secrecy, in truth the room from which the empire was run, though the Senate was allowed to act as if they made the necessary resolutions. Petrus, sliding to the side of the open double doors, silently indicated they should take station out of view.
‘They will pray now,’ he whispered, ‘but the bargaining for the succession will begin very shortly.’
‘Would it not be blasphemous to act so soon?’
The equally soft point got a quiet snort and a hissed lecture.
‘There can be no hiatus. Word will spread that Anastasius is dead, to a populace that has been waiting weeks for it to happen. All the factions who seek advantage in that will be preparing to act but they will hold back to see if first, those who should decide on the succession, the men of the council, do so.’
‘And if not?’
‘Prepare for riots, looting and murder as scores are settled. The Blues and Greens will be at each other’s throats within days.’
‘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.