A punishing scramble took Uprauda to the ledge — a wide shelf of rock along which he was able to walk in perfect security. Now, in the distance ahead, he could see the bush with that wretched helmet shining like a beacon in the sun. And there, only yards below it, was Atawulf, clinging to a huge boulder projecting from a fissure in the cliff. A tide of euphoria swept over Uprauda. He shouted, to let the other know he was coming, heard an answering cry — then stopped, his elation draining away.
Directly in front of him, the shelf ended suddenly — continuing a short distance further on. Between the two sections was a gap no more than three feet wide, bridgeable by a single bold stride. Uprauda stared at the yawning drop beneath the breach, and shrank against the cliff in terror. With palms sweating and mouth dry with fear, he approached the Bad Step — only to hesitate, then stop, on the very lip. He told himself that there was no risk, that at ground level he could perform such a trifling feat without a second thought. But it was no good; after making several aborted attempts, he knew he could not do it.
He tried to shut his ears to Atawulf’s calls — at first of hope, finally of despair. At last there came the terrible moment when he saw his friend, unable any longer to maintain his hold, begin to slip. Then, with a cry of terror the boy fell, his body twisting and tumbling as it plunged into the void. .
In grim silence, the little procession carrying Atawulf’s broken body on a makeshift litter returned to Tauresium. After the grieving and the funeral would come a reckoning. But no direct blame would be laid upon Uprauda for what, after all, had resulted from a collective enterprise. According to his statement, he had tried to save Atawulf, who had fallen before he could be reached. Which was, insofar as it went, a not untrue account, merely an incomplete one. In Uprauda’s dreams however, the helmet often reappeared — both a symbol of ambition, and a reminder of his cowardice.
In the branches of a bush growing from a cliff, a pair of nesting falcons made a fortunate discovery: a round hollow object, ideal for their home. It even sprouted a ridge of hair — perfect material with which, along with moss, to line their new abode. As, over the years, their dwelling changed in colour from gleaming gold to bluish green, it witnessed the fledging of many generations of falcon chicks.
* Arianism: the form of Christianity adopted by Germans; it differed from Orthodox Catholicism in denying the Divinity of Christ.
** Born 31 August in the year of the consuls Trocondus and Severinus. (i.e. 482; see Notes.)
* A play on the names Uprauda Ystock. As Gibbon shrewdly observed, ‘The names. .are Gothic and almost English’ (my italics) — evidence that Germanic tongues have a common root.
PART II
EMPEROR-IN-WAITING
AD 500-527
TWO
He who has lost honour, can lose nothing more
‘. . so in conclusion,’ pronounced Olympius, holder of the Chair of Law at Constantinople University, ‘our judge, having heard all the evidence for the defence and for the prosecution, must make his judgement. How is he to do this?’ Inviting a response, his gaze swept round the crowded tiers.
‘The Law of Citations would require him to consult the findings of the jurisconsults* in similar cases, and follow the verdict of the majority,’ eventually suggested an intense-looking youth.
Olympius nodded approvingly. ‘Correct — as far as it goes. But let us speculate the following: Gaius and Papinian pronounce a guilty verdict, Ulpian and Paulus one of innocence, with Modestinus abstaining. A tie, in other words. What then?’
The low buzz of speculation that followed, accompanied by shrugs and head-shaking as students conferred, gradually petered out. Then the silence was broken by a tall young man with calm grey eyes. ‘Papinian would have the casting vote, Magister. The judge would be compelled to give a guilty verdict.’
‘Well done, young Petrus!’ enthused the other. ‘You’ve been reading up your Responses, I see.’ Once again, his eyes swivelled round the benches. ‘As should the rest of you,’ he added, with mock severity. The doctor swept up his scrolls and codices. ‘Next time, we shall examine what Trebatius terms the Equality of Crime. For example: he who takes a handful of grain from a sack of corn is just as guilty as he who steals the entire contents.’ This last statement was delivered in a spray of spittle, a peculiarity which had earned Olympius the soubriquet, Aspergillum — the Holy Water-Sprinkler — and was the reason why the two front rows of the lecture hall were always empty for his sessions.
Chatting noisily, the class dispersed via the main entrance, Olympius departing through a small door behind the rostrum.
‘Any budding Ciceros in this year’s class?’ enquired Demetrius of Olympius. The two old friends were strolling in one of the shady colonnades in the university precincts. Demetrius — once a humble grammaticus teaching sons of the aristocracy in the Palace School — had risen, through sheer drive and talent, to occupy the university’s Chair of Rhetoric.
Olympius shook his head. ‘No such luck, I fear. You know how it is with younger sons — the Army, the Law, the Civil Service; at a pinch, the Church. Hardly calculated to inspire a sense of vocation.’ He paused, then added thoughtfully. ‘But I’m forgetting; there is a student who shows exceptional promise. One Petrus Sabbatius, a truly remarkable young man. Arrived in the capital from some God-forsaken provincial backwater, speaking hardly any Greek. Then, three years later, on leaving the Palace School as its top scholar, enrolls at university. Quite the most ambitious student I’ve ever had to deal with. Hungry for success — to a degree that’s almost frightening. Not in the least pushy or arrogant, though. Just quietly single-minded.’
‘Sounds too good to be true. I can’t imagine that being so brilliant makes him liked, though.’
‘There you’d be wrong. He is popular with most of his fellow students; he’s gathered quite a following, in fact, who seem to hang on his every word. Plenty of female admirers too. Hardly surprising; he’s looks to die for — like an Apollo by Praxiteles. But they’re wasting their time where he’s concerned.’
‘You’re suggesting he may have the Greek vice — as in Plato’s Symposium?’
Olympius laughed. ‘Nothing like that. It’s just that he’s too focussed and driven to have any time for romantic distractions. Now, keep this to yourself; despite resembling your archetypal Greek god, young Petrus doesn’t have a drop of Hellenic blood in his veins. I have it from a friend at court that he’s a Goth. Nephew of General Rodericus, Commander of the Imperial Guard.’
‘Well, if he hopes to make his mark, he’s going to need all that determination you say he possesses. As we know, being German is a massive handicap to a career inside the Empire.’ Demetrius’ expression softened. ‘I taught Theoderic, you know. My star pupil at the Palace School when, as Crown Prince of the Ostrogoths, he was a hostage here in the capital. He’s doing well for himself — now. King of Italy and vicegerent of Emperor Anastasius. But getting where he is today — that was a titanic struggle that would have crushed a lesser man. It’s a fact of life: to get anywhere, a German has to show he’s at least twice as good as a Roman. We don’t discriminate against other races. Why, we’ve had emperors who were Spaniards, Gauls, Africans, Illyrians, even an Arab. But never a German. “Discuss” — as one might say to one’s students.’