It was therefore incumbent on Celer and Roderic, as the two ‘strong men’ in the capital, to take swift, decisive action to install a new emperor before Vitalian or Hypatius could enter the arena. Though speed was of paramount importance, the candidate for the purple must yet be chosen with the utmost care. He would have to be acceptable not only to the Senate and the Army, but most of all to the people — the volatile, strong-willed, and passionate citizens of Constantinople (whose views could be said to reflect in microcosm the opinion of the Empire as a whole), without whose approval no emperor could hope to keep his throne.
Eagerly exchanging reminiscences, the two men headed south into the Twelfth Region (less distinguished than the Eleventh, but still respectable), bound for the Harbour of Theodosius.
‘Phew! After campaigning in the highlands of Isauria, I’d forgotten just how hot the city gets in July,’ murmured Valerian, mopping his brow as they crossed the wide and crowded Mese, its arcaded sides filled with shops selling silks, jewellery, scent, and a hundred other luxuries. All around them swirled a dense mass of humanity, colourful, cosmopolitan: wealthy citizens bejewelled and dressed in the height of fashion, attended by a train of servants and hangers-on; members of the new order of patricians, distinguished in their white robes edged with purple; monks and bearded priests; off-duty soldiers; blue-eyed Germans, conspicuous by their fair hair and pink skins; peasants from the country, driving carts full of vegetables; Egyptian sailors on leave from the grainships of Alexandria; soberly clad merchants. .
A group of Blues supporters approached, everyone in their vicinity giving them a wide berth. On passing Petrus and Valerian however, they greeted the former with respectful salutations.
‘You’re not involved with that bunch of thugs, surely!’ exclaimed Valerian.
‘Purely on a business basis. Call it mutual back-scratching: I keep the city prefect’s police off their backs, in return, they employ, ah — “persuasion”, to expedite certain contracts for my uncle. You’ve no idea the amount of tedious bureaucracy you have to cope with if you go through the normal channels.’
‘You dark horse, you.’ Valerian shook his head, half in disapproval, half in admiration.
As the two threaded the narrow lanes of wooden houses leading to the harbour area, they became aware of a distant shouting coming from an eastern direction. It grew steadily in volume as it swept westwards through the city like an advancing wave. At last, what had at first been a confused babel of sound, resolved itself into intelligible phrases: ‘Anastasius is dead. . the emperor is no more. . our “little father” has been taken from us. .’ The efforts of the imperial staff to stop the news from getting out had failed — little wonder, considering that the Palace was not a single edifice but consisted of two dozen separate buildings: pavilions, banqueting halls, state rooms, offices, chapels, barracks. . Given such a scenario, total security was virtually impossible.
‘I must get back to the Palace!’ exclaimed Petrus, immediately aware of the potential crisis that the news would have precipitated. ‘As a member of the Scholae I’ll be expected; I’d have been there already but for the fact that, thanks to my uncle, I’m excused living in barracks. I just hope to God that Celer and uncle Roderic can keep a lid on things and instal a new emperor before Vitalian or Hypatius can stir things up.’ He smiled apologetically at his companion. ‘Sorry, old friend, our session at Diogenes’ will have to — ’ He broke off suddenly, his face turning ashen. ‘Listen!’
The rapidly approaching roar of the crowd had changed from a confused tumult expressing sorrow and consternation over the death of Anastasius to a rhythmic chant demanding its choice for a new emperor: ‘Rodericus Augustus! Rodericus Augustus!’
‘The fools!’ gasped Petrus, turning an anguished face to his friend. ‘My uncle can’t be emperor — he’d be totally out of his depth and never be able to cope.’
‘Too late — he’s been named. That means he’ll be seen as a rival for the purple by whoever else decides to throw his hat into the ring. And if he’s defeated. .’ Valerian gripped the other by the arm and stared bleakly into his face. ‘Well, we both know what that could mean.’
‘Blinding or death,’ whispered Petrus. ‘Oh God, Valerian, what a mess.’ He tried to think constructively but his brain refused to respond, his mind seemingly paralyzed.
‘Petrus — get a grip!’ shouted Valerian. ‘We can save your uncle, but only by making sure he becomes emperor. And that means acting, now!’
‘What, what must we do?’ Petrus’ mind cleared, but a sick, hollow feeling of dread began to grow inside him.
‘Go immediately to the Senate House, persuade the Senate that your uncle’s the best man to wear the purple. You know the sort of things you have to say; you’ve done the course in Rhetoric as part of your legal training. Meanwhile, I’ll go to the Hippodrome where the crowds’ll be gathering, try to whip up support for your uncle. If we can get the backing of the House and the people, the soldiers will likely follow suit. Right, let’s go.’ And the pair set off eastwards at a fast pace towards the huge complex comprising the Hippodrome, the Imperial Palace, the great church of the Holy Wisdom* — Hagia Sophia — and the Senate House.
Recognizing the nephew of the Count of the Excubitors, the porters on duty outside the great ivory-panelled doors of the Senate House admitted Petrus into the building. Inside, all seemed confusion, with anxious-faced senators in their archaic togas milling about, and talking in low, excited tones. Not having been primed to announce any bills or official business, Methodius, the Caput Senatus**, a stooped and venerable figure, hovered irresolutely before the rostrum. Only the Patriarch, Epiphanius, seated in his cathedra, aloof and splendidly garbed in his ecclesiastical robes, seemed unmoved by the occasion.
‘Ah, there you are Sabbatius,’ snapped Celer, the Master of Offices. Burly and bald, imposing in muscle cuirass of gilded bronze, the commander of the Scholae exuded authority and confidence. ‘Better late than never, I suppose. I was about to put my name forward as the most suitable replacement for our newly deceased emperor. As the nephew of General Rodericus — who is not without influence in the places where it counts — your support could be useful to me.’
Events had moved beyond his ability to influence them, Petrus told himself, mortified to realize that his chief reaction was a feeling of relief. With Celer about to enter the race, and no sign of Roderic in the chamber to contest him, the result was virtually a foregone conclusion. The nerve-racking prospect of having to address the Senate had evaporated. Then a hot flush of shame swept over Petrus. Even if it now came too late to achieve anything, it would be unforgiveable cowardice not to speak up for the man to whom he owed everything. Twice before, in circumstances forever branded into his memory, he had let cowardly self-interest dictate his actions. But not this time.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he heard himself say, ‘but I can’t support you. The people have started calling for my uncle. It’s him that I must help.’ He went on, a note almost of pleading entering his voice, ‘Surely you can see that, sir.’
‘I can see nothing of the sort,’ snorted Celer. ‘General Rodericus as emperor? The idea’s preposterous; he wouldn’t last a week. As for you, Sabbatius — may I remind you that as a serving officer under my command, it is nothing less than your plain duty to give me your backing. Refuse, and the consequences for your career will be extremely serious.’ And he strode off towards the Caput Senatus, with whom he was soon deep in conversation.