At last, the charged hush was broken by Celer. ‘If the best that this young man can do to vindicate his uncle is to bandy about wild accusations aimed at myself,’ he blustered, with a nervous laugh, ‘I suggest that we ignore him.’ As a riposte, it lacked force and all conviction. Petrus sagged with relief as he realized his gamble had paid off. Celer dare not take him to task for fear that Petrus was in possession of knowledge which would enable him to make damaging disclosures. The fact that Petrus had no proof of any wrongdoing on Celer’s part, was obviously something that the Master of Offices could not risk assuming. His failure to challenge Petrus amounted to an admission, in effect, that he had something to hide.
The atmosphere in the Senate House had subtly changed, the altered mood manifesting itself in a ripple of claps, which — mingled with cheers, gradually swelled to a sustained ovation. He had won, Petrus realized with a sense of wonder. There had been great gaps in his speech, he reflected: for example, he hadn’t actually proposed that Roderic should be emperor; nor had he replied to Celer’s charge that Roderic, as emperor, would have been unable to cope. (With hindsight, he told himself that he could have countered this charge by pointing out that he, Petrus, with his familiarity with the workings of the imperial bureaucracy, could have managed the administration while his uncle grew into the job.) But none of these omissions seemed to matter now.
As the cheering gradually subsided, a distant clamour could be heard that, gradually approaching, resolved itself into a rhythmic shouting: ‘Rodericus Augustus! Rodericus Augustus!’ Methodius signalled that the doors of the chamber be opened, whereupon, borne by his Excubitors upon a shield, General Roderic entered the Senate House, to be greeted by acclamations from the senators.
The Excubitors formed a protective screen around their commander who, when they stepped aside, was revealed clad in a purple robe — an impressive figure with his height, breadth of shoulder, and mane of grizzled hair. The Patriarch now stepped forward and, placing the imperial diadem on the general’s brow, announced in ringing tones, ‘Behold your new Augustus, henceforth to be known as “Justinus”, signifying “most suitable” — a fitting appellation for one who has served his Empire so honourably and so well.’
Looking happy and at the same time slightly bewildered, the new emperor held up his hand to stem the storm of applause that followed the Patriarch’s address. ‘Noble senators of New Rome,’ he declared, in a voice hoarse with emotion, ‘my given name is Roderic which, in my own tongue means “of good report” — a designation I have always tried, though doubtless often in vain, to live up to. But I gladly now surrender it for the one you have honoured me with, since, by the choice of the soldiers, the people, and now the Senate, it would appear that you have chosen me “most suitable” to wear the purple. Accordingly, I pledge that I will always strive my utmost to justify your trust, and to keep you in all prosperity.’
Somewhere, he had heard that a man had only so much courage, Petrus (ensconced in a quiet corner of the Palace gardens to collect his thoughts) reflected later. Like a sum of money placed for safe keeping in a goldsmith’s vaults, you could draw upon it only so many times before it was exhausted. How much of that deposit had he used up in the Senate House today? he wondered. And how much of it was left? Enough to enable him to cope with the tremendous demands that would, from this time on, be made of him? For it was beginning to dawn on Petrus just how momentous was the change that, thanks to the events of the past few hours, had been wrought in the circumstances of his uncle and himself. Suddenly and without warning, Roderic (whom he must now start thinking of as ‘Justin’), a tough and experienced old soldier but a child in the sphere of high politics, had become the most important person in the Roman world. Which meant that he, Petrus, by virtue of his being his uncle’s right-hand man, was now the second most important! But was he equipped to rise to this stupendous and quite terrifying challenge? Petrus cast his mind back a decade and a half, to when he had completed his studies at the university. .
Somewhere along the way, his career had stalled. The brilliant and ambitious young embryo lawyer with bold plans to reform the whole vast structure of the Roman legal system, had somehow drifted into becoming a dilettante-scholar who had allowed his interest in theological studies to take precedence over his legal goals. A desire to help his uncle cope with his senatorial duties had enabled him to follow up an academic interest in archives* and the machinery of state administration, without the inconvenience of actually having to work for any department. Happily absorbed in these researches, he had hardly noticed as his twenties slipped into his thirties; then suddenly early middle age loomed just ahead, causing Petrus to sit up and take stock. A frank session of self-analysis and self-assessment had left Petrus with a vague feeling of failure and frustration. His life (its material wants looked after by his uncle) was comfortable and pleasant, and not without a certain modest standing, which was boosted by the cachet of his (albeit virtually honorary) military rank. But what had he actually achieved in life? ‘Make us proud of you,’ had been his mother’s parting words. But could he, in all honesty, say that he had done so?
Now however, through a turn of Fortune’s Wheel, all aspects of his curriculum vitae to date, Petrus realized, constituted the perfect set of qualifications for him to become plenipotentiary for his uncle, in his capacity of emperor. Petrus’ intimate knowledge of the workings of state departments put him in an ideal position to check the pulse of the administration and, where necessary, apply corrective measures. And now that, through his uncle, he had access to the levers of executive power, he could at last entertain realistic hopes of being able to implement his cherished schemes of law reform. Also, his interest in theology would help him to take up the vitally important role of mediator in the conflict between the two opposing Christian creeds within the Empire. These were: the Chalcedonian, which held that Christ had two natures, both human and divine; and the Monophysite, which believed that Christ had but one, divine, nature. Unresolved, these differences (such was the central importance they assumed in people’s minds) had the power to bring about a damaging schism, which could split the Empire into two mutually antagonistic camps.
A sobering consideration now occurred to Petrus. Roderic (no — Justin, he corrected himself) was sixty-eight. His successor, therefore, could reasonably be expected to ascend the throne in the not too distant future. And, Justin being childless, that successor (barring some unforeseen accident) would, Petrus realized with a shock, be him! Though no longer a prerequisite, military experience was always a distinct advantage for anyone aspiring to the purple. So, even though in Petrus’ case this was limited to largely ceremonial duties, the fact that he had held an army rank would count in his favour regarding his acceptability as Justin’s heir.
Bent on some official errand, a silentiarius came by. Noticing Petrus, he paused and bowed, murmuring a deferential, ‘Illuster,’ as he passed. Yesterday, he had been just a plain Roman citizen, Petrus reflected. Today, through some strange constitutional alchemy, he had become one of the Illustres — the highest grade of Roman society! Feeling oddly disorientated, Petrus told himself that he was still the same person. Yet he knew that in some indefinable way this was no longer quite the case, and that his world would never be the same again.
* 10 July 518. The entry in the Fasti was later modified to show that Anastasius had died that same year — which began on 1 January with the naming of the consuls.