The plot, of course, must not be allowed to succeed, thought Procopius, as he made his way down from the Necropolis towards the great shining square that marked the Cistern of Saint Mocius, one of the three that were open to the air. Usurpation — though a frequent occurrence in the old Western Empire — had never succeeded in the East, though the Nika Riots had come pretty close. Should the conspiracy be foiled by others than the prefect and his vigiles, then he, Procopius, would appear in a most unfavourable light — incompetent at best, implicit in the plot at worst. If, on the other hand, the coup succeeded, what then? As a favoured appointee of the murdered emperor, he might well find himself proscribed by the new regime as politically tainted. Alternatively, one or both of the two Justins might launch a counter-coup. Should Justinian’s usurper be deposed as a result, Procopius, as former prefect responsible for law and order in the city, would be blamed for failing to forestall him in the first place.
That he, Procopius, might harbour such reservations, would not have occurred to someone like Horatius — clearly a blinkered idealist who probably imagined all Friends of Libertas to be as altruistic as himself. Anicius Julianus on the other hand, being a man of the world had understood that, while one might be prepared to support a noble cause, there was nothing wrong with expecting due compensation for providing that support, or for not being willing to make the ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the cause. Not for him that ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori’* hogwash. His undercover work for Libertas had, for sure, been dangerous at times; but it had been well rewarded, the risk adding spice to the campaign of sabotage which he had waged, not altogether unsuccessfully, against Belisarius.
Meanwhile, he would pretend to go along with Horatius, learning from him all he could about the details of the plot. Then, in a pre-emptive strike, he would arrest the conspirators before they could carry out their intention. He, Procopius, would be the hero of the hour, no doubt to be suitably recompensed for his boldness and professionalism. Libertas was a cause lost many years before; a sensible man accepted that and moved on. Then a sudden happy thought occurred to him. There was something to be salvaged from the wreck of that abandoned dream — something that would provide enormous satisfaction, while incurring not the slightest risk. .
Meeting regularly with Horatius at the Necropolis in the course of the next two weeks, Procopius learned the following. Marcellus, Ablabius and Sergius had arranged with the master of ceremonies (no doubt some coin changing hands) for their couches at the feast to be the ones nearest to Justinian’s. The third accomplice, Sergius (from whom Horatius obtained his information), had received assurances from his two officer friends that, in support of the coup, they would call out a large number of the Palace Guard, disgruntled over recent cost-cutting measures regarding donatives and privileges.
Procopius now confided to Horatius that he had just stumbled upon reliable information that Belisarius was privy to the plot, and (though his position prevented him from openly declaring it) intended to lend it his support. The general’s huge authority and popularity would, Procopius pointed out, virtually guarantee the coup’s success. Of course, he, Procopius, had no such secret knowledge; it was merely a fabrication to implicate Belisarius. Planted in Horatius’ mind, the seed would germinate and grow. Passing by osmosis to Sergius, then to Sergius’ two officer friends, it would serve to cast suspicion on the general in the event of anyone ‘talking’ under interrogation in the aftermath of the plot’s exposure.
What a delicious way to settle an old score, thought the prefect. Now, he stood to be paid back in overflowing measure for all those mind-numbingly tedious hours when, as official war historian compiling his account, he had been forced to listen to Belisarius enlarging on his deeds of derring-do. The man was an unashamed glory-hunter, a romantic dreamer who loved war for its own sake, who had seemed to treat campaigning as a game, where opponents like Witigis or Totila were regarded more as sporting rivals to be treated with respect and courtesy than as deadly enemies to be eliminated by whatever means were most effective. That was something Narses understood; a professional soldier to his fingertips, he had finished off in months a war that Belisarius had allowed to drag on for nearly two decades, resulting in destruction and suffering on an incalculable scale.
Should Belisarius’ ‘involvement’ in the plot come to light, it would cause the general acute embarrassment at the very least. More likely it would incur public humiliation, with loss of office, wealth, or even liberty, while his ‘betrayal’ would come as a bitter blow to Justinian, who regarded the general not only as a valued servant, but as a trusted friend. Libertas may have failed, Procopius reflected, but at least the tyrant and his minion would not escape entirely a measure of just retribution.
On the fifteenth day of October, the Palace, especially its kitchens, hummed with activity concerning preparations for the banquet to be hosted by the emperor. Cleaning, tidying, arranging, checking lists, scores of menials and slaves, chivvied by silentiarii implementing the instructions of the Magister Officiorum — Peter the Patrician — transformed the Triklinos or state banqueting hall into a space of glittering magnificence, with couches of rare woods decked with silken cushions, elegant tables supporting dishes, flagons, bowls, and goblets, all of solid gold and finest workmanship, and everywhere swags and garlands of sweet-smelling flowers.
Mid-afternoon, and Justinian’s guests — the great and good of Constantinople, resplendent in their robes of office — began arriving: senators, patricians, generals, bishops, the Patriarch. After being announced by the master of ceremonies, these were shepherded to their places by silentiarii. Smiling, affable, welcoming to all, Justinian was the very model of a gracious host, his mood serene and happy following the morning’s service of re-dedication in Hagia Sophia, its restored dome more glorious even than before.
Course followed course of exquisite food, each accompanied by the appropriate wine; then, when the lamps had been lit and the last course finished, the master of ceremonies proposed a toast to, ‘Flavius Anicius Justinianus — our Thrice-Blessed Augustus, Restorer of the Roman World.’
All rose and raised their goblets. Then a collective gasp of horror burst from the assembled guests as three senators, placed nearest to the emperor, drew daggers from beneath their robes and stepped towards Justinian. But before they could strike, they were surrounded, overpowered, and disarmed by vigiles disguised as servants. Bursting free from his captors, one of the would-be assassins grabbed a carving knife from a table and, before he could be re-apprehended, drew the blade across his throat. Spouting in scarlet jets from severed arteries, blood fountained through the air, splashing Justinian’s purple robe.
In a dungeon deep in the bowels of the Praetorium, the remaining two conspirators in manacles — Marcellus being the one who had died by his own hand — stood before the seated prefect. The room’s other occupants were a dozen vigiles, and a carnifex or torturer, who stood beside a table on which, like a set of surgeon’s instruments, was ranged the grisly tool-kit of his trade. In a corner, an array of rods and pincers projected from a glowing brazier.
‘Just tell me all you know,’ said Procopius in pleasant tones. ‘You’ll talk anyway — eventually. So why suffer unnecessarily?’
Both men remaining silent, the prefect nodded to the torturer. The man approached the pair, bearing in gloved hands an iron rod with white-hot tip. This was applied to the backs of the prisoners, these being restrained securely in the grip of burly vigiles. A sickening stench of burning flesh filled the dungeon. Ablabius remained silent, blood dripping down his chin from where he had bitten through his lower lip, but Sergius screamed aloud in agony. ‘No more!’ he sobbed, as the iron was withdrawn. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’