Justinian by Ross Laidlaw Page A

Column of Marcian in the capital’s prestigious Eleventh Region – ‘Ta Ioulianes’. Valerian, now a junior general serving under the
Magister Militum per Armenias
(after having flirted briefly with a legal career), had suggested the rendezvous in a letter written from the front during the latest insurgency to break out in the Taurus Mountains.
    â€˜First grey hairs,’ observed Petrus, as the pair took stock of each other.
    The other grinned ruefully. ‘Those Isaurians could turn your whole head white. Persistent little buggers. We keep on beating them; trouble is, no one seems to have told them that.’ He studied Petrus with undisguised curiosity. ‘What’s with this fancy army uniform? I always thought you were a confirmed civilian, nose always stuck in a law book.’
    Petrus gave a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘I’m a
candidatus
– an officer in the Scholae regiment. Strictly a parade soldier, I’m afraid. These days, I’m working more and more for my uncle Roderic, who’s Count of the Excubitors – which
is
a fighting unit. As he’s also a senator, I write his speeches for him and help him chair committees and dispense patronage – all of which he hates doing. He seems to think that a military uniform gives me a bit more clout. But I haven’t deserted the law; I’ve been working on a draft for a radical revision of our legal code – in fact, ever since ‘the Holy Water Sprinkler’ lectured us on Citations and
Ius Respondendi
.’
    Valerian chuckled. ‘Dear old Olympius; he never did work out why those two front rows were always empty for his lectures.’ He paused and gave his friend a sly wink. ‘And how many female conquests has “the Adonis of Byzantium”, as the girls used to call you, notched up since we last met?’
    â€˜Well – none, actually,’ admitted Petrus with a sheepish grin. Sex, in his opinion, was a vastly overrated pastime, involving an inordinate amount of time and energy which could more profitably be directed towards absorbing and worthwhile pursuits, such as the study of law and theology. He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I never seem to find the time,’ he added feebly.
    Valerian sighed and shook his head in mock despair. ‘Perhaps you’ve missed your vocation, Petrus, and should have trained to be a priest.’ He eyed the other speculatively and chuckled. ‘Somehow though, I can’t imagine you with a beard. But why, I ask myself, are we standing here wasting valuable drinking time? Diogenes’ tavern awaits our patronage, my friend.’
    That same morning – the fourth before the Ides of Julius in the year of the consuls Magnus and Anastasius Augustus, * an atmosphere of crisis, approaching one of panic, gripped the Palace. Grim-faced
silentiarii
– gentlemen-ushers, prowled the corridors in an attempt to prevent any leakage of security, while Celer, the Master of Offices, and Roderic, Count of the Excubitors, alerted the troops under their separate commands, swearing them to silence. For during the night, in the middle of a violent thunderstorm, Emperor Anastasius had died at the age of eighty-seven, designating no successor.
    Which created a power-vacuum – an especially dangerous one. Ten days’ march to the north of the capital was an ambitious general, Vitalian, at the head of a powerful army of Goths and Bulgarians. Twice in the past five years he had tried unsuccessfully to topple Anastasius. At this present juncture, any delay in choosing a new emperor would hand Vitalian an opportunity to attempt a coup. Another potential rival for the purple was Hypatius, nephew of Anastasius and Master of Soldiers in the east. Based as he was at Antioch, it would take many days before news of his uncle’s death reached him, and at least an equal amount of time for him to march on the capital. However, as a potential player