“You, there,” their captain barked at me as I sprinted towards the gate, “keep your distance.”
I stopped and tore off the garland on my arm. “I’m not with the rioters,” I cried, throwing the garland away, “I am loyal to the Emperor, and have news that he must hear.”
“You might be a spy, or an assassin,” he said doubtfully, “give your message to me. I’ll make sure it reaches the Emperor.”
The captain was clearly not an advanced thinker. I didn’t trust him a bit. “No. I must see him myself. Look, here is my knife. I carry no other weapon.”
They watched me suspiciously as I plucked my knife from its sheath and dropped it on the cobbles. Even then, the captain ordered two of his men to search me.
“All right,” he said when they were done, “I will escort you myself. Helias, you’re in charge until I get back.”
He referred to his junior officer, who looked greatly put out at being left in command in such a dangerous situation. His men didn’t look happy either.
The captain took my arm and dragged me through a bronze portal set inside the gate. I had never set foot inside the palace before, and gaped in wonder at the interior passage, which was lavishly decorated with white marble and sparkling mosaics.
“Hurry,” the captain growled, and hurried me along the passage until it opened onto a huge parade ground occupied by rows of timber barracks. These were the quarters of the Excubitors, and the ground should have been full of purposeful military activity. Instead I saw soldiers milling about or talking urgently in little groups, with no sign of direction or discipline.
“What is going on?” I asked. “Why aren’t these men out on the streets, restoring order?”
The captain made no reply, and led me into a bewildering network of pavilions, corridors, gardens and galleries. The vast complex of the palace was divided into six rising terraces spread over a steeply sloping hillside. It was an entirely self-enclosed world, cut off from the sordid realities of the city. I passed through chambers big enough to house entire streets, gorgeously painted with frescos of religious scenes and exploits of past Emperors. Servants and guardsmen rushed to and fro, all of them in a state of near-panic.
I was gasping for breath and utterly disorientated by the time we reached a huge central forum. This was dominated by a mighty arched roof, supported by rows of marching pillars and painted with a stunning image of Christ and the Apostles.
The forum echoed to the sound of many conflicting voices. Senators and other officials stood about arguing with each other. From the snatches of conversation I heard most seemed intent on fleeing the city as soon as possible. There was no talk of marching out to confront the rebels.
My eye was drawn to a group in the middle of the forum. One of them was the Emperor himself. I had seen him on many occasions, in the imperial box at the Hippodrome or during public ceremonies. He was a short, plump man in his early forties, handsome in a cherubic sort of way, his curly hair already turning grey.
Beside him was Theodora. I had not seen her at close quarters for years. Her sinewy body was wrapped in purple silks and decorated with costly jewellery in place of the cheap bangles she had once worn, and her face was hard under its carefully-applied layers of cosmetic. Power and exalted rank, I reflected, had done little for the ex-dancer’s beauty.
Clustered around Justinian and Theodora were a group of the most powerful men in the civilised world. I knew them all from reputation and seeing them in the Emperor’s retinue on public occasions. They were: Narses, the Emperor’s steward and chief eunuch; John of Cappadocia, a venal and corrupt minister; Mundus, a tough German mercenary whom Justinian had appointed Magister Militum of the Roman forces in Illyria and along the Danubian frontier; Hypatius, the senator and rival for the imperial throne; and General Flavius Belisarius.
Let a shaft of light pierce the dark clouds of my narrative. Thus far it has featured a parade of fools and traitors, liars and degenerates. My own character was tainted by association with such people. I had sunk to the very depths of shame and dishonour, but God sent Belisarius to drag me out.
I remember being unimpressed by his appearance. The general looked rather like an underfed priest who had donned military uniform. He was tall and slightly stooped, with a bony, angular frame and a severe countenance. His face was hollow-cheeked and long-nosed, adorned by a neatly clipped black beard, and his hair thinning and fast receding from a high, domed forehead.
Belisarius and the others were deep in argument as we approached, and even the Emperor jumped in surprise when the captain clashed to a halt in front of him and ripped off a nervous salute.
“Captain Leontius,” Justinian exclaimed — he had a deep voice, with a slight tendency to lisp — “what are you doing here? You were detailed to guard the Chalke Gate.”
“Forgive me, Caesar,” Leontius responded, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above the Emperor’s head, “your guards still hold the gate. This man came to us, claiming to have an important message for you. I thought it best to bring him personally.”
“You mean you thought it best to abandon your post,” Theodora said angrily. Her voice was somewhat huskier than I remembered, and her eyes widened in shock as she recognised me.
“Britannicus,” she hissed, “what pit have you crawled out from?”
I stiffened at the undisguised malice in her tone, and recalled my poor murdered friend Felix, his throat slashed by her hirelings.
“Caesar,” I said, suppressing an urge to accuse Theodora to her face, “I have come from the Hippodrome, and must inform you that the rioters have proclaimed Senator Hypatius as Emperor in your place.”
Hypatius was an elderly, dried-up stick of a man, and one of those pitiable characters destined to be a victim of fate. His eyes rolled in his head as I spoke. He started to snivel, and fell to his knees before the Emperor.
“Pardon, dread Caesar,” he whimpered, gathering up the hem of Justinian’s white robe and burying his face in it, “I had heard something of the plot, but was resolved to take no part in it. I swear on the bones of all the Saints, I am loyal to you, Caesar, loyal unto death, loyal…”
He went on protesting his loyalty, while Justinian gazed down at him with a mixture of bafflement and disgust. “Not loyal enough, it seems, to inform me of the plot,” he snapped, snatching away his robe, “why was that, senator?”
The babble of voices in the forum had died away, and all eyes were on the wretched figure of Hypatius. His voice seemed to catch in his throat, and he croaked something about being threatened with death if he betrayed the conspirators.
“Kill him,” said Theodora, “kill him now. Captain Leontius can do it. Let his head be delivered up the rioters on a purple cushion, so they may crown their new Emperor.”
“Sound advice, Highness,” remarked John of Cappadocia in his silken voice. The others said nothing, though I saw Belisarius and Mundus exchange glances.
Justinian rubbed his chin. “I am reluctant to shed royal blood,” he said. “It might create a dangerous precedent. Senator, you will quit the palace. At once.”
Hypatius didn’t seem to comprehend. He just stared, his eyes wide and brimful of tears, one corner of his mouth twitching violently.
A look of fury crossed the Emperor’s usually placid features. “Go!” he roared, his voice echoing around the forum. He stamped his foot and pointed at the door as though he meant to throw Hypatius out personally.
The senator jerked into life and stumbled away, sobbing like a frightened child.
“That was unwise,” said Theodora, “the mob may seize him and crown him Emperor, whether he wills it or no.”