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 itself. Like a stone forest, hundreds of pillars topped by Corinthian capitals rose from the surface of what appeared an underground lake, to support the roof. Stepping into a punt moored at the bottom of the stairs, Petrus tightened his grip on the hard, round object in his right hand, fearful lest his sweat-slicked palm should allow it to slip. Poled by Valerian, the craft moved off between the pillars towards an ‘island’ composed of massive ashlar blocks, rising in the middle of the cistern. Petrus started at the sight of two vast, half-submerged Medusa heads, glaring balefully at him from the side of the landing-stage, their serpent-locks appearing to stir in the gently agitated water.
A short flight of steps took Petrus and Valerian to the top of the great platform which served as an anchorage for the boats of the inspection and maintenance workers, and a repository for their equipment. Today, it was ringed by those who had witnessed the scene in the bath-house, enclosing a space about thirty feet across. Clad only in his underwear, his second beside him, Nearchus was already waiting in the centre.
Stripping, Petrus advanced towards his opponent, his height and graceful build contrasting with the other’s squat, heavily muscled frame. Dismissing the seconds to the perimeter, the arbiter now stepped forward, positioning himself between the contestants. ‘No artificial aids permitted,’ he declared. ‘The first to force the other onto his back, wins.’ Moving aside, he called, ‘Begin.’
The two young men circled each other warily; then, with a speed and agility that belied his bulk, Nearchus, arms whirling, closed with his adversary in a weaving rush. Clapping a hand to his head, Petrus uttered a sudden, loud cry — and collapsed. Seconds and arbiter sprinted forward and bent over Petrus’ barely conscious form. ‘Foul play!’ declared Valerian, pointing to a discoloured lump visibly swelling on his friend’s forehead. Picking up a round stone that lay beside the prostrate Petrus, the arbiter concurred. Holding aloft the offending object for general inspection, he announced, ‘By employing a concealed weapon, Nearchus has flagrantly breached the rules of the contest. I therefore declare Petrus the winner by default.’
In vain, Nearchus angrily protested his innocence. If he’d really hit Petrus with a stone, he shouted, he’d hardly leave the evidence lying around. But it was no good; having already forfeited general sympathy, no one, it seemed, was now prepared to accord him credence. Shunned by his fellow students, he became an increasingly lonely and embittered figure at the university. Meanwhile, his victorious rival’s star continued to rise, Petrus’ popularity boosted by the face-off with Nearchus.
At night however, Petrus was increasingly troubled by a recurring dream from the past. It would start with the first sighting of that helmet, caught in a bush halfway up the cliff. Then, although knowing what was coming, he would struggle to regain consciousness, but the dream would progress with an awful inevitability: his agony of hesitation at the Bad Step; then Atawulf clinging desperately to the boulder; finally, his friend’s cry of terror as he lost his grip and went spinning into space. . Sweating and terrified, only then would Petrus awake. As if drawn by some strange compulsion, he would study his face in a looking-glass, and note, reflected back at him accusingly, a faint, star-shaped scar on his forehead — the brand of the coward. At such moments his confidence would drain away as he found himself wondering if, after all, Nearchus had been right: could a barbarian and the son of an ex-slave ever hope for real and lasting acceptance by the Roman world?
* The five leading Roman jurors in the past, whose verdicts were accepted as deciding precedent.
* The Sea of Marmara.
* Ethiopia.
* Their rival faction was the Greens. See Notes for Chapter 3.
THREE
The Emperor Caesar Justin. . assuming empire by universal choice. .it is
our care. . to keep you in all prosperity
‘Petrus!’
‘Valerianus!’
The two friends (whose diverging paths after their student days ended fifteen years before, had prevented their meeting save on rare occasions) embraced warmly, at the Column of Marcian in the capital’s prestigious Eleventh Region — ‘Ta Ioulianes’. Valerian, now a junior general serving under the Magister Militum per Armenias (after having flirted briefly with a legal career), had suggested the rendezvous in a letter written from the front during the latest insurgency to break out in the Taurus Mountains.
‘First grey hairs,’ observed Petrus, as the pair took stock of each other.
The other grinned ruefully. ‘Those Isaurians could turn your whole head white. Persistent little buggers. We keep on beating them; trouble is, no one seems to have told them that.’ He studied Petrus with undisguised curiosity. ‘What’s with this fancy army uniform? I always thought you were a confirmed civilian, nose always stuck in a law book.’
Petrus gave a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘I’m a candidatus — an officer in the Scholae regiment. Strictly a parade soldier, I’m afraid. These days, I’m working more and more for my uncle Roderic, who’s Count of the Excubitors — which is a fighting unit. As he’s also a senator, I write his speeches for him and help him chair committees and dispense patronage — all of which he hates doing. He seems to think that a military uniform gives me a bit more clout. But I haven’t deserted the law; I’ve been working on a draft for a radical revision of our legal code — in fact, ever since ‘the Holy Water Sprinkler’ lectured us on Citations and Ius Respondendi.’
Valerian chuckled. ‘Dear old Olympius; he never did work out why those two front rows were always empty for his lectures.’ He paused and gave his friend a sly wink. ‘And how many female conquests has “the Adonis of Byzantium”, as the girls used to call you, notched up since we last met?’
‘Well — none, actually,’ admitted Petrus with a sheepish grin. Sex, in his opinion, was a vastly overrated pastime, involving an inordinate amount of time and energy which could more profitably be directed towards absorbing and worthwhile pursuits, such as the study of law and theology. He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I never seem to find the time,’ he added feebly.
Valerian sighed and shook his head in mock despair. ‘Perhaps you’ve missed your vocation, Petrus, and should have trained to be a priest.’ He eyed the other speculatively and chuckled. ‘Somehow though, I can’t imagine you with a beard. But why, I ask myself, are we standing here wasting valuable drinking time? Diogenes’ tavern awaits our patronage, my friend.’
That same morning — the fourth before the Ides of Julius in the year of the consuls Magnus and Anastasius Augustus,* an atmosphere of crisis, approaching one of panic, gripped the Palace. Grim-faced silentiarii — gentlemen-ushers, prowled the corridors in an attempt to prevent any leakage of security, while Celer, the Master of Offices, and Roderic, Count of the Excubitors, alerted the troops under their separate commands, swearing them to silence. For during the night, in the middle of a violent thunderstorm, Emperor Anastasius had died at the age of eighty-seven, designating no successor.
Which created a power-vacuum — an especially dangerous one. Ten days’ march to the north of the capital was an ambitious general, Vitalian, at the head of a powerful army of Goths and Bulgarians. Twice in the past five years he had tried unsuccessfully to topple Anastasius. At this present juncture, any delay in choosing a new emperor would hand Vitalian an opportunity to attempt a coup. Another potential rival for the purple was Hypatius, nephew of Anastasius and Master of Soldiers in the east. Based as he was at Antioch, it would take many days before news of his uncle’s death reached him, and at least an equal amount of time for him to march on the capital. However, as a potential player in the succession game, he most certainly could not be ruled out. Thus, the perfect ingredients for a bloody civil war had all come together at the worst possible conjunction.